Nova Et Vetera
by GinnyRules
Summary: A new take on old tales: Things are not always what they appear. / "He does not know where she is pulling this motivation from, but he is fairly certain that this is both the best and worst moment of his life." (Marriage law, Veela, Head Boy/Head Girl... A series of cliché one-shots with a twist and, you know, an actual plot.)
1. Battaglia

**A/N:** I've been getting a lot of PM's about the list of Dramione cliches on my profile. I'm glad a lot of you have enjoyed it, but I'll concede the point many of you have made, that even the most blatant of cliches can be entertaining if well written and executed. So there's the challenge. I scanned through the list and found (in my opinion) the most insane bunch of all and tackled them in this collection of one-shots. In order, the themes will be Marriage Law, Head Boy/Girl, Veela, Makeover, and Pureblood Hermione.

PS: The next chapter for "Ash and Fire" is forthcoming I promise. But I'll always come back to Draco, he's just such an adorable jackass. Cheers!

* * *

**BATTAGLIA**

"Just so you know, I'm not touching you, Granger," Draco says, shrugging on his traveling cloak and hardly glancing at her. "I've got more than enough gold to pay the sanctions."

"I don't care how much money your family's amassed to bribe their way out of Azkaban," Granger snaps at him. "I wouldn't be with you if you were the last person on Earth."

There is real venom in her voice. Normally she is always rising above a fight, regarding him with insufferably smug superiority, while Potter and Weasley are the ones to take the bait. Recent events must have truly shaken her up. The thought makes anger flare up white-hot inside him: _he_ is meant to be the one with cause for complaint here; _he_ is getting the raw end of the deal. She is getting a mansion and more servants than she could count.

"Well?" he says impatiently when she makes no move to follow him. Her cloak is still hung over her chair by the door of the hall that was booked at the last minute, where guests are filing out slowly with many an awkward glance at the unhappy couple. He has walked into an utter nightmare, somehow.

Granger looks up at him incredulously. "What?"

"Well, are you coming or not? Merlin, am I always going to have to spell things out for you? I thought you were meant to have brains."

"You—you don't actually think I'm going to come stay in Wiltshire with you, do you? You think I want to live in a house where I was tortured two years ago?"

"What part of _legally binding_ don't you understand, Granger? It's not like I want you there..."

"Nowhere in the law books does it say we're required to live in the same place, which you would know if you had bothered to read any of them," she retorts, rolling her eyes in that bossy way that has not changed since she was eleven. "I'm going home to Grimmauld Place."

Draco is furious at himself for not having known this, but he can't let it show, not in front of her. Sneering, he pulls a red velvet box from his pocket and tosses it at her.

"Good, that suits me fine," he says. "Take it and go."

Granger's eyes go round as Gelleons when she opens the box and sees what is inside. The ruby encrusted gold necklace looks absurdly incongruous in her hands: she has not even bothered to put on a wedding dress for the day. The sight of such a valuable family heirloom in the hands of someone like _her_ leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Potter and his gang will never stop trying to strip everything away from him.

_Except that they saved your life, didn't they?_ counters a voice in his head. Draco clenches his fists.

"What in the world is this?" Granger demands, snapping the box shut.

"When you have a wedding, you have a wedding gift. Not that I'd expect you to know about tradition in civilized, _wizarding_ families."

"But it—it's—"

"It's priceless and it matches your house colours. So toss it in a gutter for all I care. I didn't pick it out, the elves did."

Her voice grows shrill all of a sudden as she squeals, "House elves?"

"_Goodbye_, Granger." Draco seizes a glass of scotch from a passing tray on his way to the exit and downs it in one. "Don't keep in touch."

* * *

_MORGANA MARRIAGE ROSTER SURFACES AFTER FOUR CENTURIES: PUBLIC OUTRAGE REACHES UNPRECEDENTED LEVEL_

_After four hundred years of obscurity, the little-known Morgana Roster (once colloquially known as the "Ball and chain parchment") alarmed members of the Department of Mysteries this morning by glowing into action for the first time since the Pendle Witch Trials. For those unfamiliar, the parchment is thought to have been designed by the legendary enchantress Morgana as a means of preserving the wizarding population of Britain in times when our numbers dipped dangerously low. Special correspondent Rita Skeeter reports on an interview with uncharacteristically candid Head of the Department of Mysteries, Emeritus Valmount._

"_Obviously we can't reveal anything about what transpired in the Morgana Roster room in centuries past," claims Valmount. "However I think as this will implicate such a massive portion of the public directly, that people have a right to know. We can confirm that the Roster was thought to have become permanently dormant until this morning. We believe the revival has been triggered by the myriad casualties sustained by our community as a result of the recent war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Roster is now very near to completing its cycle, at which time each unwed witch and wizard of marriageable age (17 to 55) in the country will have been assigned a marriage partner to whom they will legally be wedded. Spouses are reportedly selected in a manner so as to pair members of Pureblood families with those of Muggleborn origin as much as possible, in order that bloodlines might be diversified."_

_When can the public expect to be notified of their given 'match'? "We will be requiring all citizens of relevant age to present themselves at the Ministry in weeks to come. More information will be given at this time." And for those in the (currently very vocal) majority who wish to refuse the arrangement? The Morgana Roster constitutes a binding magical contract. The Department of Mysteries is doing everything it can, Valmount asserts, to work on a means of reversing the enchantment. In the meantime, however, nothing can conceivably be done to halt the inevitable._

_For more on Mr Valmount's alleged connection to illegal Billywig trafficking, see pages 3, 5, and 8..._

Hermione barreled into Harry's office on Level Two, her hair flying wildly, her blouse buttoned crookedly. She was unsurprised to see Ron sitting in a corner, shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

"Is it true?" she demanded.

Harry rubbed his temples wearily. "Yes. I've just spoken with Kingsley's assistant, and she managed to get me an advanced copy of the Roster. I had to play up the whole 'Chosen One' thing a bit, but—"

"That's putting it lightly," Ron muttered.

"The point," Harry went on quickly, "is that there are some regulations listed on here the _Prophet_ hasn't publicized yet.

"Such as?" Indignation was making Hermione's head pound. She had never heard of anything so archaic...

Harry winced. "Such as all couples must produce a child within eighteen months, or a sanction of fifty thousand Galleons will be applied."

"_What?_" Hermione shrieked. "But they can't _do _that! That's completely—Surely the Minister—"

"Kingsley's _on_ the list," said Harry, tossing her the parchment on which hundreds of names had been scrawled in tandem. "Paired with Sybil Trelawney. They're pretending they know what to do, but this is out of the Ministry's hands. It's a powerful magical bond, like the Goblet of Fire."

"But how can it be? No one entered their names, no one signed up for this..."

"They didn't have to. The Roster is connected to the list of students entered to be enrolled at Hogwarts. It updates itself automatically. And the Goblins are the ones slotted to carry out the sanctions. They're in charge of all the gold, and they've announced their intention to uphold the system."

"It's even too late to run away, leave the country," added Ron in a strangely hollow voice. "Because the wedding day itself isn't really the problem. According to magical law, once the names are down on the Roster, the contract is sealed. Technically, everyone on that list is _already_ married."

"Well," huffed Hermione, breathing deeply through her nose to calm herself. "Well... At least we three are safe. I mean, Harry and Ginny are already married, they don't even qualify, and we're engaged. But this is an absolutely horrid violation of human rights. I can't even imagine what some people must be— What?" she added, because Ron was looking at her with a mixture of despair and pity in his eyes.

"In the time when the Roster was invented, marriage proposals were thrown around as casually as dinner invitations," said Ron. "They're... Well they're not being counted."

"I—But—What?"

Her hands trembling, Hermione lifted up the copy of the list Harry had given her and scanned it. Her head was spinning and her movements were sluggish like a sleepwalker's. At last she found her name, jumping out viciously at her. _Hermione Jean Granger_, no longer merely an identification but a condemnation. And next to it...

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_.

A choking, strangled noise fought its way up her throat, and she looked up to lock eyes with Ron, who was gazing at her helplessly. An eternity passed between them in one moment, and then Hermione was running as fast as her legs would carry her, hardly caring where she was going, on and on until she was running out into the night.

* * *

"It's _awful_, Draco!" Pansy screeches, tears flowing freely down her face as she clings to Draco's sleeve. "He snores like all hell. He won't speak to me. I'd rather be _dead_!"

"Merlin, Pansy, how many have you had?" Draco asks, eyeing the bottles of mead stacked on her coffee table. For a long time he had found Pansy's veneration, her dependence on him, incredibly flattering. But ever since the Morgana Roster each visit to her family's Devonshire Manor has brought nothing but a torrent of tears and whimpering. He already halfway wishes he could simply climb back into the fireplace and return to the Leaky Cauldron, because at least he can hold his drink.

"What does it _matter?_" she cries dramatically, flopping back against her sofa cushions and sniffling. "Nothing matters anymore if I can't be with you. I should just go live with the Muggles!"

"Well, don't," Draco snaps. He does feel that the constant complaints are growing tedious when he so clearly has it worse than she does. Goyle may be uncouth, but at least he comes from a decent family.

But Pansy is not listening. Already she is reaching for another drink, but she is unsteady on her feet and as she teeters to the side he catches her, only to have her vomit spectacularly on his shoes. Swearing under his breath, Draco tosses the half-conscious Pansy onto the couch and backs away quickly.

"Hob!" he calls out to thin air. The Elf will have to clean this mess up, because he certainly isn't going near it. Nothing happens, and impatiently he repeats his summons. "_Hob!_"

Still nothing. And suddenly Draco is seized by a powerful suspicion that makes his eyes flash and his jaw set. He scrawls a quick note to Pansy's mother to check up and make sure her daughter doesn't poison herself, sends it off with the family owl, then vanishes the sick on his shoes and Apparates to the now unprotected Grimmauld Place.

"Granger!" he bellows, hammering on the door and ringing the doorbell repeatedly. "Open up, _now!_"

The door swings open but she is not there to greet him. He sees her through the kitchen door at the end of the front hall, sitting at the table and frowning over a thick stack of notes. Of course she is.

"You freed my Elves, didn't you?" Draco snarls, stalking up to the kitchen and glaring daggers at her.

She does not even look up. "What's mine is yours, and vice versa, Malfoy, remember?"

"You'll be sorry for this. You had no right—"

"No one has any right to keep slaves—"

"Oh please. If you were any more holier-than-thou you'd be a bloody Hippogriff—"

"Malfoy, do you remember Marietta Edgecomb?" Granger interrupts abruptly.

"Spotty girl? Ravenclaw? What does that have to do with anything?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Those spots will never come off. I used a slow-acting curse that builds power over time. Not even St. Mungo's has been able to do anything about it, as far as I can tell. So if I were you, Malfoy, I'd steer clear of threatening me."

She has more fight in her than Pansy, he'll give her that. Draco takes a step back and decides to change tack. He narrows his eyes, reveling in the taste of someone else's misery rather than his own, for once—he's always been good at that.

"Do you know who I ran into the other day, Granger?" he asks. "At St. Mungo's, since you mention it; I was there to make a donation. And who did I see but Weasley's pretty little wife. You know the one. She was headed for the maternity ward, if I'm not mistaken. Looking for that trusty little test, I'd imagine—"

"Don't!"

She stands up abruptly, her nostrils flaring, and it is clear that in her mind he has crossed some invisible line. Good. Nothing more than she deserves.

"Not even a month," Draco muses. "You'd think Weasley could have held out a little longer."

She slaps him. The sound is like the crack of a whip, and he is fairly certain her hand will leave a mark on his face. It stings, more vividly than anything else he can remember from that night.

_Do it again_, he almost says, biting on his tongue at the last moment to stop himself. What the hell is wrong with him? Has he become inclined towards punishment?

_Of course you have_, the voice pipes up. Sometimes he thinks it is his father's, or Snape's, but there is really no way to tell. _Because truthfully, you know you deserve it_. Absurdly, he feels himself begin to get hard.

"I'll hire new Elves," he says, turning away and stomping off down the hall.

"I'll free those, too," she calls after him.

He can tell that this fight is far from over.

* * *

"_Gabrielle Delacour?_" Hermione shouted, incensed. "She isn't even from here!"

Ron looked down at his feet. "She moved up here to finish off her education at Hogwarts. Fleur says she wants to learn English, too."

"I can't believe this," Hermione said once more. "I just can't believe it."

Ron reached for her hand but she pulled it away in spite of herself, because he had been just a trifle too hopeful when he had broken the news to her, as though he thought she might simply offer them her blessing.

"We can get past this, Hermione," he tried. "It won't be forever, if... if we can just hold out until the eighteen months is—"

Hermione glared at him, nearly apoplectic with incredulity.

"You're not going to _go through with it?_ We may have to marry them, Ron, but that doesn't mean we have to have children with them."

"Well, but, the sanctions..."

Hermione threw her hands into the air. "It's only money, Ron!"

His ears were turning red now, and he was beginning to grow agitated. "Not everyone has money to spare, Hermione. You can't expect me to bankrupt my whole family!"

"So we'll fight it! We'll lobby and we'll—we'll get rid of the sanctions."

Ron gave a dispirited laugh, and it was plain how little faith he placed in this plan. Hermione's heart was beating a violent tattoo against her chest, and she could feel tears beginning to prickle at her eyes.

"She's a child," she said quietly, desperately.

She wondered if Ron realized the faraway, dreamy look that had come into his eyes.

"She's seventeen. No younger than we were when we were out hunting Horcruxes."

"Oh? Don't you mean out moaning about our arm and demanding gourmet meals?" Hermione bit her lip, knowing already that she had gone too far. Ron's face fell tremendously; it seemed to crumple in upon itself. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"I don't have a choice, like you don't have a choice," said Ron roughly, not looking at her.

"I haven't—I'm not going to—"

"Because you have the gold."

"Please, Ron," she breathed. "Please don't."

* * *

They run into one another in Diagon Alley entirely by accident, and it is possibly the most bizarre circumstance of his life, because they are married, but they are strangers. He does not recognize her at first. Her hair is sleek an shiny, and she is wearing a well cut dress of some floaty, moss green material that accentuates the few flecks of pale green in her eyes. So, to his mortification, he finds his gaze lingering a little too long, and he is certain that she has noticed. When he becomes aware that it is Granger he offers her an ironic bow filled with little else besides bitterness.

The bow sends him off balance, and that is when she becomes aware that he is drunk.

She raises her eyebrows in disdain and he prays that she will pass him by, leave him to his stumbling, paralyzing walk along memory lane. For a moment it really seems she will. Instead she seizes him by the collar and drags him forcibly into The Leaky Cauldron. She shoves him into a secluded booth and disappears for several minutes, returning at last with a pitcher of water and two glasses.

"Your behaviour reflects on me now, you know," she hisses.

"Then have the damn law repealed," he slurs, wishing his words were clearer.

She pours a glass of water for him. Draco picks it up, deliberately moves it in the direction of his lips, and then extends his arm to the edge of the table. He pours the water slowly onto the ground, smirking. Granger bites her lip and leans back against the wall of the booth, her hair cascading over her shoulders.

Nice lips, good shoulders.

_No, no, no, no, no—_

"Why the shiny new get-up?" he asks. "I hate to break it to you, Granger, but I think it's too late to get Weasley back."

Her face is tight with rigidly concealed pain. "Not that it's any of your business, but they took my picture today. For my Chocolate Frog card."

"Of course. Famous Granger, Muggle extraordinaire."

She whips out her wand at lightning speed and holds its point very close to him as she turns it between her fingers, as though both examining it and threatening him at once. Draco cannot help but retreat against the wall, licking his lips and breathing deeply.

_Not again, not again—_

"Why didn't you do it?" Granger asks.

"Why... what?" The world is spinning, and suddenly he is too dizzy to formulate an answer.

"Why didn't you kill Dumbledore when you had the chance? You had him cornered, but Harry said you lowered your wand."

No one in his world ever speaks to him so directly. Draco finds himself thoroughly nonplussed; nonplussed and _very_ sleepy.

"Ogden's Old," Draco calls after a bartender, tapping the table and avoiding Granger's gaze. He figures she has her answer: he is a coward now, the same as he was then. He will never be able to explain to himself why he gave up the opportunity to take down the old man, and he does not care to rehash the past now, in front of Granger.

The young waiter wheezes over, blushing furiously as he bows before Granger, famous Granger. She begins to wave him off but Draco pulls a handful of gold from his pocket, and she capitulates.

Not even Granger's voice can reach him when the haze of Firewhiskey sets in.

He wakes up in unfamiliar surroundings, his head pounding and his throat parched. His hair is plastered to his forehead and he feels a wave of nausea wrack over him as he sits up on the plush green sofa in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place.

Grimmauld Place!

"Damn it all, Granger," Draco grumbles, staggering to his feet and reaching for his wand.

"Your gratitude is overwhelming," says a voice from behind him, and he turns to see Granger standing in the doorway, already dressed for work. It occurs to him that he does not even know what she does for a living.

A stray thought surfaces: _She looks better with her bushy hair and baggy robes; more like herself._

"Planning to kidnap me and hold me for ransom, were you?" he asks, blinking against the morning light.

"Until you opened your mouth just now, I was planning to do the decent thing and offer you coffee." She shrugs and turns away.

"I didn't do it—in the tower with Dumbledore—I didn't do it for the same reason I never told the Carrows that I knew Dumbledore's army were using the Room of Requirement seventh year," Draco blurts out, because for some reason he does not want her to leave.

They look at one another for a long time.

"And why is that?" she asks at last, an odd sort of look passing over her face.

"I don't know."

* * *

"I'm not putting on a gaudy, expensive sham of a wedding, Malfoy," Hermione said for the twelfth time, turning her back on him. "Now for the last time, will you leave me alone?"

"I'm not going anywhere until you agree to this," Malfoy insisted, barring her passage into the lift out of the Atrium and glaring down at her. "A million others would swap their wands for the chance you're getting."

"A million others are welcome to it. Why in Merlin's name do you even _want _to make a spectacle of yourself, anyway? You do realize your name's not in favor at the moment, don't you?" A lightbulb went on in her head. "Oh, of course. That's exactly why you want to do this. To get back in the good graces of the press."

His face twisted in anger and she thought to her surprise that she was wrong. Reluctantly, Hermione realized, she had become far too well acquainted with all his various expressions. There was a slant to his mouth when he was trying to hide something; it made him look younger and far less haunted by the ghosts of his mistakes. It made him look striking.

"If you want to hoodwink the press you'll have to do it without my help," she said, a little more coldly than she had intended.

"I don't give a damn about the _Prophet,_" Malfoy replied in more earnest a voice than she had ever heard him use. _My God,_ she thought, _he wants this badly_. "My mother does. She wants—"

"Still tied to your mother's apron strings, then—"

"Will you just give it up and tell me what it's going to cost for you to do this?" he cut across her, banging his fist against the gate, which rattled on its hinges.

Hermione's mind whirred into overdrive, laying out a clear path ahead for her. She cringed inwardly. It was not going to be pleasant.

"I don't want your blood money, Malfoy," she told him. "But... I do have a condition. I'll play the role of the bride for an afternoon, if you'll pay the sanctions for Ron."

Malfoy frowned. "Fifty thousand Galleons so your boyfriend will keep his paws off the Veela girl? In your dreams, Granger."

"Fine. Explain to your mother why her son's wedding is going to be short a bride, then."

She pushed past him into the lift, keeping her eyes fixed on his as the gate rattled shut. Just as the floor rumbled to life under her feet he growled low in his throat and ran his hand through his hair.

"All right, but this is a done deal. I'll pay the sanction for the Weasel and his wife, and you'll book a hall and wear a bloody ring. I have your word?"

Hermione smiled and nodded, only for a moment, and then the lift clanged upward and out of sight. The second she reached the Second Level she sprinted to Ron's cubicle and threw her arms around him, panting.

"I solved it, it's all right, it will all be all right!" she told him, jubilant.

"Hermione, slow down. What've you solved?"

She beamed at him. "Malfoy's going to pay your sanctions. Gabrielle doesn't have to get pregnant."

To Hermione's utter bemusement, Ron's eyebrows flew up and his ears turned a flaming red. "Are you mad? You think I want to be indebted to Malfoy?"

"What does that matter so long as you don't have to go through with it?"

"How can you say that? Malfoy would hold it over our heads forever."

"No he wouldn't," Hermione insisted. "It's all worked out. I agreed to stage a wedding with him for his mother's benefit in exchange—"

"I can't believe this. Selling yourself out for—This is insane!"

But Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Why are you protesting so much?" As Ron began to splutter her insides froze to ice. "It's too late, isn't it? You've already—Oh please tell me you haven't—"

The truth was written plainly on his face. Hermione's hands were numb. She was falling, falling through the floor, stumbling away from him, and he was calling after her, trying to explain. But she was already gone.

* * *

The Annual St. Mungo's Benefactors' Party has never been so full of forced smiles and tense conversation. Everywhere Draco looks he sees nothing but mismatched couples who avoid even brushing shoulders. Dennis Creevey and Millicent Bullstrode. Mafalda Hopkirk and Dedalus Diggle. Percy Weasley and Dolores bloody Umbridge (he actually feels something akin to sympathy there). Yet the one face he is looking for is nowhere to be found.

Granger has promised to put in an appearance, and he is beginning to grow worried. Not because he gives a damn about her company, but because she is always punctual to a fault, and her absence bodes ill. Something could have happened. The last remaining Death Eaters on the run striking out at Potter's greatest lieutenant...

The clock on the far side of the ballroom strikes ten and Granger is now officially two hours late. He is going to look like a fool if she does not show up, he is going to lose valuable credibility.

_And I'm going to lose more than that if something's happened to her._

Why has he never thought to keep tabs on her, to set up a watch or a guard of some sort? She would hate it, naturally. Still—

He faces the entranceway and sees her enter in a plain black dress. Something within him snaps as he watches her scanning the crowd, looking for him. What the hell does his brain mean by flooding him with such relief at the sight of her?

"You took your time," he snaps, striding up to her with a pair of champagne flutes, glowering. It wouldn't do for her to think he will let anything slide just because she looks the way she does in that dress.

"I'm sorry," she says distractedly. She is holding herself differently, as though constantly fearful that someone might be standing just behind her. And he has never heard an apology from her before. On impulse he drags her by the arm into a nearby scullery, away from prying eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco asks. "This nightmare of a marriage may be a sham but as my _wife_ I think the least you could do is inform me if you plan to vanish without a trace."

"What are you talking about? I was a little late, that's all. I had things to do—"

"For all I knew you could have been dead in a ditch somewhere!"

Granger's lips twitch. "Is that concern, Malfoy?" Her eyes are startlingly bright in the gloom of the tiny kitchen area.

"Don't flatter yourself," Draco snaps. A frying pan is digging into his back, forcing him uncomfortably close to her.

Oh, to hell with it.

He kisses her furiously, shoving her against a sink and sending a tower of cookwear crashing to the floor. She tastes like smoke and wine and she is a bloody miracle.

She leaps back, gaping at him, wide-eyed. Her lips are swollen and one shoulder of her dress is askew. He half-heartedly hopes she will slap him again.

Much worse, she kisses him back.

Granger is pressed against him, pulling at his jacket. He has no idea where she has pulled this motivation from but he is convinced this is the best and worst moment of his life. He kisses behind her ear and down her neck and hitches her up onto the sink, breathing heavily. Her dress has slipped entirely off her shoulders now, and Draco's heartbeat stutters when he observes that she is wearing nothing beneath it. He reaches down to push her dress up her legs.

This will be the limit, he is sure of it. But amazingly, he is wrong. She sighs in his ear and rips the buttons on his shirt clean off. Growling in spite of himself, Draco pulls on her hair, hard, yanking her head back so that he can kiss a line along her jaw. With his other hand he pulls his belt free. She loops her legs around his waist and arches her back, and for a moment he forgets that there is a dark mark on his arm, that there are other, deeper marks that will never come off. He forgets it all and loses himself.

* * *

Hermione stood in front of the mirror in her room at Grimmauld Place, her good old room, courtesy of Harry and long since vacated by Ron, smoothing down the front of a white satin dress specially ordered for her by Fleur.

Regardless of Ron's actions, she had given Malfoy her word. And so she had spent all morning finalizing flower arrangements she could not have given two figs about, and attempting to subdue her hair into something resembling elegance.

Abruptly she unlaced the sides of her dress and let it fall to the floor, replacing it with her ordinary work robes. Next she waved her wand, allowing her hair to fall back against her shoulders as bushy and unkempt as ever. Her mere presence at this travesty of an event ought to be more than enough. Already she was not certain the painful knot in her stomach would ever loosen.

When she could stand to look at her reflection no longer Hermione exited the house and Disapparated to the prim London hall that had been settled upon as a location. It was much smaller than she had expected, the decorations minimal and even tasteful. Shocked, if relieved, Hermione made her way inside through the back door to avoid being noticed by the horde of reporters gathered outside. There she found herself facing a most peculiar spectacle.

Malfoy and Rita Skeeter were standing just around the corner, the former attempting to leave and the latter looming over him with many entreatments.

"Just a little exclusive, Draco," Skeeter pleaded aggressively, barring Malfoy's passage as he tried to slip away. "An insider's account of how the notorious Hermione Granger ensnared and blackmailed you into hosting the wedding of the decade. Imagine the headline! Just like old times..."

"For the last time, sod off!" Malfoy muttered.

"_Really,_" Hermione huffed in exasperation as Skeeter continued to harangue him. Stepping out into the open, she raised her wand and cheerfully trilled, "Hello, Rita!"

Skeeter's expression went from predatory to horrified in an instant, and she immediately began to back away, but it was too late.

"_Verum Ostendet!_" Hermione cried, and with a faint pop the reporter seemed to vanish, her clothes crumpling in a heap on the floor. Quickly conjuring a glass jar, she summoned the fat black beetle that was attempting to scuttle away across the floor and sealed it inside.

"Just for the duration of the wedding, Rita," said Hermione amicably, tapping the jar and levitating it in front of her. "Then you can have any headline you like.

Malfoy was gaping at her, looking entirely nonplussed.

"Right, let's get this over with then," she told him, leading the way into the main hall.

* * *

Granger storms into Malfoy Manor unannounced the day after the St. Mungo's Party, stepping foot inside a house she legally owns for the first time since the war. Draco is grateful that his parents are away on business. The protective enchantments around the place recognize her as a Malfoy—as bizarre a notion as it seems to him—and she is soon standing in the drawing room, shouting through the house for him to show himself.

Draco takes his time descending the stairs from his room, wary of looking too eager, even though all he can think about is how she looks under that dress. The moment he sees her he knows that she is livid about something. She is glorious, a tempest of crackling, murderous energy.

"I'd like a word," she snarls.

"Of course." He crosses his arms and waits, but she shakes her head.

"Not here."

He notices then that Granger is incredibly tense. Her fists are clenched and she is averting her gaze from the floor by the fireplace, where...

Where she was tortured.

Draco is furious with himself for forgetting, but he nods curtly and leads her into the dining room, pulling out a chair for her out of habit. She refuses to sit.

"You don't have any money," she says flatly.

"My father warned me marriage would be like this." Draco smirks, though his mind is screaming in panic. _How does she know?_

"Don't you dare try to get out of this. The Malfoy vault at Gringott's was destroyed by the dragon Harry, Ron and I freed during the war. You've done a great job of hiding it, to be certain, but all your assets are tied up. You have nothing."

He shrugs, as though she has simply caught him cheating on a test. "How did you find out?"

"That doesn't matter! You can't afford to pay anyone's sanctions, let alone your own. You lied to me when we made that agreement about the wedding."

"Of course I did. How else would I have gotten you to agree to it? You were much too fixated on Weasley to realize he was a lost cause."

Granger shoves at him, weakly, and he thinks there is something else bothering her. _Oh!_ In the name of all that's good, is _that_ what she thinks?

"You can't pay the sanctions. This means that yesterday at the party—This means you were just trying to—" She breaks off, confirming his suspicion, and closes her eyes as though she cannot even bear to look at him.

"If that's what you think, Granger, then why don't you just have a damn test done? You're not pregnant. There are charms to prevent that. You may not know them but I do."

"I—Of course I know them."

"Do you want to have a child of mine?"

"Of course not."

"Then what's the problem?"

Her eyes fly open and it is clear she can see that he's led her into a trap.

"Yesterday was a mistake," she says very quietly.

"I'd call that one hell of a mistake, Granger." He reaches for her, unsure what he means to do, and she flinches. "We're on the same side of this, even if you can't see it. Some dusty old parchment isn't going to dictate the rest of our lives."

"But the sanctions..."

Draco sighs. "What's the worst that can happen if we don't pay them? The Goblins might come after us? So, we'll run. Stay abroad for a while until things around here go down a few notches on the crazy scale."

"_We'll_... run?" He has never seen Granger so bewildered, or at a loss for words.

"Potter and Weasley will learn to tie their shoelaces without you, I promise," he drawls just to see her cheeks color.

"Draco, don't you dare—" She stops and they look at one another. Has she ever called him Draco before? Suddenly he cannot remember. And he does not care.

He carries her out of the kitchen and up the stairs, shaking his head at her squeal of surprise. His room has been rather dark and gloomy since the House Elves left but it does not matter because by the time they reach the upstairs corridor he is kissing her too feverishly to make it inside. Propped against a statue of his ancestor Cygnus Black, who must be rolling in his grave, she is flushed and panting and her eyes are hard as flint.

"I need—" she breathes, biting gently at his bottom lip.

"Yes?"

"I need you..."

"Say it, Granger."

But she reaches to unbuckle his belt and he forgets what he means to say. As he takes her in the middle of the corridor, all he can manage is to wonder why he has not been doing this all along.

* * *

"Mrs Malfoy?"

Hermione was unaccustomed to the name and did not react at once when it was called. She was busy watching the guests filing into the front row of the hall. Harry and Ginny had come to support her, though they looked entirely dispirited by the proceedings. Ron was absent.

"Mrs Malfoy?"

At last she turned to see a squat, gray-haired wizard in impeccable dress robes standing behind her, holding a sheaf of parchment.

"Hermione is fine, please," she told him.

"Hermione." He nodded briefly, his eyes twinkling. "Do you know who I am?"

She frowned. "I'm afraid not. I had no say in the guest list. Ought I to know—" Suddenly she gasped, taking in the expression on his face, and lowered her voice. "_Mr Valmount?_"

"Quite right. But for the purposes of this exchange I should prefer you to call me Mr White."

"I apologize. It's just that you don't look anything like your picture in the _Prophet._"

Valmount gave her a sharp look. "The real Mr Valmount did not speak to the _Prophet._ The Department would never have allowed it. I was impressed to find your research capabilities enabled you to discover my true identity, in fact."

"And you understand why I've contacted you, I'm sure?"

"Naturally. Off the record, the Department admits to some embarrassment at not having come up with your theory ourselves."

"Then you think it will work? You can have the Morgana Roster repealed?" Hermione asked hopefully.

He shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. "I'm afraid we've tried it repeatedly, Hermione. Nothing doing. But we have several more avenues to consider. The Department would like to suggest a partnership for the duration of this enterprise. You will be kept in the loop on all matters relating to the Roster. But I must advise you to keep your expectations to a minimum. This is ancient, powerful magic we are treating with."

"I'll help in any way I can," said Hermione at once, reaching into the pocket of her cloak for a quill and some parchment on which to write down everything he told her. "How can I contact—"

But when she turned back, Valmount was gone.

* * *

"Draco, darling, are you listening to me?"

_No._

Draco looks up to see his mother tapping her foot by the fireplace.

"What?" he asks, yawning to show his disinterest. He has a feeling he knows what she is going to say, and he has heard this song before.

"I'm concerned about your connection with the Mudblood girl."

"Mother, if this family is going to survive we're going to have to stop throwing that word around."

"The Muggleborn, then. Draco, you've been spending a great deal of time with her."

He sighs. "With my wife? Yes, I guess I have."

"Oh, please, there's no need to be melodramatic," his mother says. "We all know this odious connection between you is not a true marriage."

_That may be true_, Draco muses. _But not in the way you think_.

"Draco!" Narcissa insists when he does not respond. "We have been having her followed!"

"What?" Draco sits up, diverted. "How?"

"The necklace I had you give the girl on your wedding day. It is Goblin made and carries a powerful tracking spell. Did you think we would have the Elves pick out such a valuable item simply out of kindness?"

"And what, exactly, was the point of tracking Hermione's every move?" he asks through gritted teeth. This could be catastrophic... "I'd think you would have better things to do."

"Not her every move, darling," his mother replies. "We've simply been reading her correspondence, for your sake."

_Well, thank Merlin for that_. Draco supposes that if his mother had found out what was going on between him and Hermione they would be having a very different conversation.

"So?" he snaps. "Spit it out already. What's your point?"

Narcissa looks most chagrined as she says, "She has been receiving very cryptic letters from a 'Mr W.' Meeting times and places, we suspect. We haven't been able to break the code and intercept these meetings, but..." She trails off delicately, as though the implication is clear.

Draco stares at her, confused.

"'_Mr W,'_ Draco," his mother cries, her face a picture of mortification. "Ronald Weasley! Who else could it possibly be?"

"Your sleuthing abilities aren't your best trait, mother," says Draco lightly, though his stomach is tying itself in knots.

It can't be true. Surely not. And yet...

"I can't impress upon you enough how damaging an infidelity scandal could be to your reputation!" his mother exclaims. "You must put an end to this at once!"

"I'll talk to her if you'll leave it alone from now on and stop having her followed. I'm perfectly capable of managing my own affairs."

"Of course, darling," she says. He does not believe her.

Draco Apparates to the Ministry for his weekly visit to manage his father's causes and marches into Hermione's office, slamming the door behind him. He has to know. Perhaps he has been blinded; frenzied. He has had her nearly every day this week, everywhere and anywhere. Nothing is as good a tonic for him as the sound of her whispering his name. He has to know.

"Who is 'Mr W'?" he asks bluntly.

She looks a little angry, but unsurprised. "You've been keeping tabs on me."

"Don't change the subject. Is it Weasley?"

Her eyes darken and her voice is constricted as she says, "No, of course not."

"Then who?"

"I can't tell you."

Draco scoffs. That isn't good enough.

"It's Weasley, isn't it?"

"You know that's not true," Hermione insists. He can hear the truth in her voice, much as his instincts repel it. "After everything, I'd imagined you would trust me. I thought—"

He advances on her and the words die in her throat. When he is close enough to whisper in her ear he says, "You should really give it a rest, you know."

"W—What?"

"_Thinking._"

He kisses her slowly and thoroughly, until she melts in his arms and begins to tug at his collar. Little though he wants to, Draco wraps his hands around hers and wrests them away, pulling back. She exhales shakily and stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Have a good day, Granger," he tells her before walking out of her office, leaving her rooted to the spot. If there is any doubt in her mind, he wants it blotted out; he wants her thinking of him, not Weasley.

His footsteps echo harshly in his own ears as he strides away.

* * *

"Do you, Draco Lucius, take Hermione Jean to be your wedded wife, until death do you part?"

"I do," Malfoy said in a voice barely above a whisper. Hermione did not think he could sound more disdainful if he tried.

"And do you, Hermione Jean..."

Her eyes flitted over the crowd. Of all the ways she had imagined her wedding might unfold, this had not been among them. Her parents were absent, still in recovery from her extremely thorough memory charm. More than half of the people in attendance were haughty looking strangers who could not have made it plainer that they considered her filth. She had never seen such a sour smile on Harry's face.

"I do," she whispered, fighting not to let her voice waver.

"You may kiss the bride."

Malfoy looked at her sharply. She felt frozen, paralyzed. Finally he leaned forward and placed a surprisingly soft kiss on her cheek for only a second.

Their first dance was steeped in strained silence. His hands on her waist were steady and he danced with a calm assurance that Viktor Krum had lacked, but he would not look at her.

"One dance is enough," she muttered when the song ended, tearing herself away at once. Malfoy's face twitched.

"A hundred generations of breeding and wealth have led to the Malfoy family, you know," he drawled. "You ought to be thanking your lucky stars to find yourself here."

Unable to control her temper, Hermione gave an unpleasant laugh.

"Brush up on your history, Malfoy," she snapped. "Until the International Statute of Secrecy in 1692 the Malfoy family patriarchs spent the majority of their time frequenting the Muggle king's court. William the Conqueror, I believe it was. And then there was Queen Elizabeth the First. That's where the Malfoy land came from—requisitioned by the crown from Muggle lords. Your family fortune is built on _Muggle_ gold. Imagine the shame."

"Shut up," he growled, his face growing paler than ever.

"And then there was the illegitimate son of the first Abraxas Malfoy in the Middle Ages," she went on relentlessly. "Of course _that_ bloodline has culminated in the illustrious person of Mundungus Fletcher."

"There is absolutely no proof of that."

"Bloodlines are easy to trace, if you know where to look, Mal—" She stopped short, her mind reeling. "Oh my God."

"What _now?_"

"I—I've just realized..."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this Granger. I've got about two hundred guests to greet."

Hermione had already stopped listening. She had a letter to write.

* * *

_MORGANA ROSTER DEACTIVATED BY MYSTERY SOURCE: PUBLIC DEMANDS RESTITUTION_

_Six months after its notorious revival, the famed Morgana Marriage Roster has been subjugated by a person or persons unknown. The Department of Mysteries has refused to comment on this bizarre turn of events, while Ministry spokesperson Mafalda Hopkirk had this to say:_

"_We can confirm that the sanctions implemented under the Morgana Roster Laws have been repealed, and that all marriages enforced under these laws have now been invalidated. The Ministry is sensitive to the damage inflicted by the events of these last six months and hopes, in time, to come to a full understanding with the wizarding community on this matter."_

_Meanwhile, crowds of angry witches and wizards demanding reparations have gathered outside the Ministry and are leading a sit-in, vowing not to vacate the premises until an agreement is reached._

_For more on the Pendle Witch Trials see pages 4 and 7..._

Draco Apparates to the alley behind the Ministry service entrance and finds himself surrounded by a crowd of hundreds, all clamoring and wielding enchanted signs.

"Mad, isn't it?" says a voice to his left.

"Potter?"

The Chosen Prat is watching the chaos with his arms folded, making minimal attempts to subdue the crowd.

"Hermione's inside," he tells Draco with a knowing look. "Though at this rate I doubt you'll get in for several hours."

"Seems you don't need to bother too much with doing your job when you're famous, I suppose?"

"Stuff it, Malfoy," says Potter without missing a beat.

Draco shoves his way unceremoniously through the crowd, sending stunners left and right when the throng grows particularly unmanageable. At last he reaches the entrance and shows the guards his pass, earned in the days when his father made weekly donations of a substantial nature. Up the lifts and into Magical Creatures his heart beats faster and faster, until finally he spots her by the water fountain, leaning against a wall.

"Malfoy!" cries a junior assistant who used to be a year ahead of him in Slytherin from a nearby cubicle. "Free at last, eh?"

Hermione's face gets a very pinched look, and she turns away.

"Seen the _Prophet?_" he asks casually.

"I didn't need to," she replies.

Draco frowns. "You... had something to do with this, didn't you?"

"I've been working on it for some time. Of course, my association with the Department of Mysteries meant I couldn't say anything. They operate through unconventional channels. Incidentally, that's how I found out you'd lost all your gold. In any case, we tracked down Morgana's last living descendant in Wales."

"Morgana doesn't have any living descendants. Everyone knows that."

"None on record," Hermione corrects him. "No _legitimate_ descendants. As a matter of fact, I got the idea from you. At our wedding, maybe you remember? We were talking about your family."

"I remember." He looks at her, at a loss.

"It took quite a lot of research to track her down. But as it turns out, all the counter-curse to deactivate the Roster needed was a bit of her blood. I _suppose,_" she looks at him shrewdly, "blood really does matter."

"So we're not married anymore."

"We're not married anymore," she confirms, fiddling with her sleeve in an unconscious way.

"Tremendous. Well, then. Right." Draco is aware that half the floor is staring at them. Hermione's face has twisted at what she interprets as his intention to cut her loose.

"I'll see you around, then," she says in a tight voice.

"Sure."

Draco turns to leave, counting his steps. _One, two, three..._ He is surrounded by gaping faces, slack-jawed stares. _Eight, nine, ten..._

"Oh, just one more thing, Granger," he says, whipping back around just as Hermione squares her shoulders and steps toward her office.

She stops and quirks her eyebrows. _What?_ her face says; she is too hesitant to say it out loud, afraid of sounding hopeful.

He crosses the distance between them and kisses her, to the sound of several outraged cries from across the floor.

_That's what._

She sways on her feet and kisses him back.

There will be no more running away.


	2. Allegro

**A/N: **Many of you have suggested I continue this collection as a series of one-shots, so here goes! I decided to try my hand at the whole Head Boy/Girl thing (THE MOST common of all cliché tropes, I think, though to be fair people have gotten quite creative with it). This is meant to be a bit lighter (more of a light T rating as well), and it's an outsider's account of Draco and Hermione's year as Heads, told by seven observers. It's also an exercise in the unreliability of narrators and demonstrating the power of the Hogwarts rumor mill. Next up will be a Veela fic. Huge thanks to everyone for your delightful, kind reviews! **sprinkle smash, starinshadows, irelove, IDanceToForget **(thanks for discussing the Head Boy/Girl dynamic with me, I didn't realize it at the time but it really got me thinking and spawned this fic)**, potterhead27, everlastingtrueromance, playwright82, lolo..**. If anyone wants to request I tackle a specific cliché, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do. (Right now apart from the Veela thing I'm considering Makeover!Hermione, Random drinking game party, and possibly some kind of Pureblood switcheroo business, though I would HATE that with a passion.)

* * *

**ALLEGRO**

GINNY

I want to start off by saying that I always knew Ron and Hermione wouldn't work out. Easy to say in hindsight, I know, but I even told her once, a long time ago. She pretended she hadn't heard me.

There was always a pull between those two: they both had something the other needed. He could make her loosen up and she could make him straighten out his act. But that was when there was a war looming over them. So long as they weren't sure if they would even have a future, they thought they wanted to spend that future together. Then You-Know-W— Then Voldemort died and reality set in.

So Hermione isn't the only one capable of all kinds of emotional insight. I just choose to spend my energy on other things, _most_ of the time. But when I started to see what was happening at Hogwarts, I had to put my foot down.

Right, Hogwarts, because of course Hermione would return after the war. Death and darkness befall us all should she miss the chance to pass her N.E.W.T's, and all that. Let me say from experience that studying for exams with Hermione Granger is not a task to be undertaken by the faint of heart. Anyway, I wasn't surprised at all to hear she was made Head Girl. There might have been rioting if she hadn't, really. What _did_ surprise me—along with everyone else in the Wizarding world—was the appointment of the Head Boy.

Draco sodding Malfoy.

It wasn't bad enough that his family was cleared by the Wizengamot and their gold was returned to them, apparently. I overheard... All right I eavesdropped on McGonagall explaining her choice to Hermione: seems Malfoy had the best grades in the whole school last year. Well, of course he did, when Snape was there as Headmaster to give him a free pass! But for some reason Dumbledore's portrait _advised_ McGonagall to follow the protocols and appoint Malfoy. Malfoy! If you ask me, Dumbledore's soft spot for twisted little miscreants has grown into a gaping hole in his brain.

Harry was livid when he found out. Ron was a stuttering mess. Apparently they didn't think Hermione could handle a few patrols a week and a shared bathroom with Malfoy, which proves they learned absolutely nothing from their year on the run with her. I wouldn't bet against her for anything. Still, I promised them I'd keep an eye on her. But being Quidditch Captain limits my free time, so I recruited what was left of the DA, which turned out to be less than zero percent helpful. Merlin knows I love Luna but she's not exactly the world's most reliable witness. And you try listening to Ernie Macmillan prattle on about cross-examination of his empirical findings for half an hour. No thank you.

The whole thing fell to me, predictably. Lucky Harry lent me the Marauder's Map. I watched Hermione and Malfoy's dots on patrol, night after night, without spotting any major incidents. And increasingly often I watched them stop at random points in the corridors, like they were just staring at each other or talking. Or dueling. Once I broke curfew and ran down to the second floor when this was going on, to make sure Hermione had backup if she needed it.

When I got there they were arguing—I think they were arguing, I _hope_ they were. I keep telling myself that's what it was. Except they were standing about an inch apart and breathing like they'd just run a marathon, so busy hurling insults at each other they didn't even notice me. Worse, though, was the look on Malfoy's face. I've seen that look before. Harry used to look at Cho Chang that way when they were fighting, and I used to scream all of Fred and George's best swear words into my pillow about it. It's sort of an _I-hate-you-so-much-I-want-to-rip-off-all-your-clot hes_ look.

I may have been a bit overzealous when I confronted Hermione about it.

_It's fine, he's not so bad this year_, I think were her exact words. _Or... well not as bad as he could be._

She's fine, he's fine, everything is fine. What a load of dragon dung. Ron developed amnesia about his recent breakup with Hermione and was nearly ready to Floo up to the school and hex Malfoy into next century, but Harry talked him down. Harry's all for trusting Dumbledore, and while I understand, I think his opinion would have differed a bit if he'd seen the look on Malfoy's face.

Still, I let it go. I'm all in favor of letting things go (just don't ask my Mum to concur on that). I didn't say a thing until Halloween, and then it wasn't even my fault that I was involved.

I'm serious.

Well, mostly. There's this joke product George sent me a prototype for, called _Sonorus Maximus_, that I'd been dying to try out. I figured Pansy Parkinson would be an ideal target, since not even Hermione would really fault me for messing with her after the way she suggested we hand over Harry before the battle. Really, I have no idea at all how her goblet got mixed up with Malfoy's when I slipped a few drops of _Sonorus_ into it. None.

You can probably guess what _Sonorus_ does. Malfoy's behaviour that night was a fine illustration of its uses, anyway. With five hundred lit pumpkins and a swarm of live bats decorating the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, nobody noticed Hermione slipping away except for me. And, apparently, Malfoy. His eyes followed her out the door, and I could practically see him counting to a believable interval in his head before he got up and followed her. Graham Pritchard grabbed his arm before he could go and likely made some kind of derisive comment. I could see his lips framing the word _Mudblood _from across the Hall. I expected Malfoy to laugh.

Instead he muttered "Sod off, Pritchard," in such a low voice that his lips barely moved. I heard him loud and clear, though. That's the beauty of _Sonorus_. Your victim's every word rings out around you as clearly as if they were shouting them at the top of their voice, no matter how far away from you they are. There was no way I was going to cast the counter-curse quite yet, and miss an opportunity this good.

Malfoy didn't seem to notice when heads swiveled all over the Hall to look for the source of his outburst. He was much too preoccupied with following Hermione. I waited on tenterhooks while he must have been sprinting through the corridors catching up to her, and finally it started: everyone in the vicinity whipped around to look at me, then at each other, as one side of an extremely cryptic conversation blasted their ears.

"_Just one bloody second—I don't—ARGH!_"

The whole Hall seemed to recognize Malfoy's voice, though they didn't know who he was talking to. McGonagall stood up, looking for the source of the noise, and I bit my lip in an effort not to laugh.

"_It's an empty classroom, don't be dense._" There was a pause. "_Are you out of your damn mind? Of course that's not... I did it so we'd be even. I don't owe you anything now_."

He sounded furious.

"—_Your bloody fault! Didn't anyone teach you to lock the door when you're taking a bath, or is that too civilized where you come from?_"

There were guffaws at every table, and Dean leaned in to ask me if Malfoy was talking to Parkinson, or what. But Parkinson was sitting at the Slytherin table, slack-jawed and livid at what she was hearing. I was starting to think publicizing this conversation had been an error in judgment.

"_Just forget it, Granger, and get out._"

Damn!

A tidal wave of gasps swept the Hall when he said Hermione's name, and McGonagall finally seemed to have zeroed in on me as the origin of the disturbance, so I quickly swung my bag over my shoulder and bolted out the door. Not quickly enough, however, to stop everyone from hearing Malfoy say, "_What look? I'm not giving you any look._"

I knew exactly what look they were talking about.

* * *

ROMILDA

I was one of the first to really get to the bottom of this thing with Granger and Malfoy. After that odd little stunt of Weasley's at the Halloween Feast, a lot of people started to say the pair of them had been found snogging in a broom closet. Or found doing _other_ things in a broom closet; the middle of a corridor; the Astronomy tower (All the usual places, you know). Isn't it awful how people gossip?

_I'm _just telling the truth.

It's never been really clear to any of the rest of us in Gryffindor how Granger manages to attract all the handsome ones. I remember when she was all over _Witch Weekly_ for ensnaring both Viktor Krum and Harry Potter in the same year... A love potion would work, of course, but as it turns out those aren't exactly easy to smuggle to your intended target. In any case, Draco Malfoy was the last of the really good-looking stock at this school and I suppose I just snapped at the thought of Granger getting her claws into him. I mean, _please!_ She might have left some for the rest of us; there's no need to be so greedy.

Then I heard from Mandy Brocklehurst, who'd heard from Vicky Frobisher through one of the Patils, that Ginny Weasley had taken to following Granger around. I wondered, what, were they in competition or something? Of course, that could work out well enough for me. The easiest way to get rid of your adversaries is to pit them against one another, my mother always says. She's an Auror. Well, she used to be. Well, she used to go out with one, anyway.

Well, with someone who _knew_ an Auror, I think.

The point is, it was all quite easy. I just snatched one of those cufflinks Malfoy always has, with his family crest, while he wasn't looking, and planted it in Granger's bag when she was headed to the library to study with Weasley. It fell out of her bag when she tugged her completely reasonable stack of eight hundred books out, just like I'd planned, and Weasley went really pale and quiet like a statue for at least five entire minutes.

It's always gratifying when hard work pays off.

Weasley said all kinds of condescending things like how Granger's choices were her own business and she was just concerned about her complete lack of judgment all of a sudden. _You're too smart to keep doing this again and again_, is what she said, which I think was a reference to the way Granger lost her head over Ron Weasley a few years ago. Merlin know I'll never understand what _that _was about. Malfoy's much better at Quidditch and he's got shoulders like Adonis...

Where was I? Well, I couldn't have planned things any better, because it seems Malfoy was listening in, and he'd heard enough. When he stepped out of the stacks to make some clever comment about how Weasley ought to spend less time trying to investigate mysteries and more time finding ways to earn gold to feed her family of thousands, Weasley absolutely lost it. She whipped out her wand, and since Malfoy isn't allowed a wand in between classes as part of his probation, he sort of backed away. And then—and _then_, Granger _stepped between them_ to stop Weasley.

"He's not worth it, Ginny," was what she said, but what her face said was _Leave my secret boyfriend and his perfect shoulders alone you little strumpet!_

I mean, _really_. Merlin's britches!

After Weasley stormed off Granger and Malfoy looked at each other for a little while, like partners in crime who spent half their time hating each other and half their time snogging. The best kind, you know. Then Granger went after Weasley, all innocent and tearful like she hadn't been caught red-handed. The two of them looked friendly enough at breakfast the next day. Bad luck for me, I guess. But it doesn't matter, because I know something no one else does.

Granger may have claimed to Weasley that she had no idea where that cufflink came from, but when she was alone with Malfoy she didn't question it once. Nor did he. It was like neither of them were surprised it might have accidentally gotten into her things.

I rest my case.

* * *

KREACHER

Kreacher does not understand why Master Harry does not believe him when Kreacher is giving him the exciting news of the alliance between Miss Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Kreacher would have liked to work at Master Harry's house, but Master Harry is being very busy with the Aurors, so Kreacher is being sent to Hogwarts instead. Kreacher is not minding. Kreacher is cooking the savoury stew that is Miss Granger's favourite—Kreacher remembers, oh yes—and sending it especially to her room every weekend.

One evening Kreacher is going to Miss Granger's room himself to deliver sweets he is saving in the bottom cupboard where the other Elves do not look. But Miss Granger is busy playing chess with Draco Malfoy! A good Elf is neither seen nor heard, Kreacher's Mistress is always saying, so Kreacher does not interrupt. Normally Kreacher is not approving of Draco Malfoy being a friend to a Muggleborn witch, but Miss Granger is a good friend to Master Harry, and Master Harry knows best. Kreacher is watching the Malfoy boy even though he is not supposed to eavesdrop. Sometimes Kreacher cannot help himself.

Miss Granger and Draco Malfoy are not speaking very much, but this is the way Kreacher's Mistress always was with Master Regulus, and no one is caring about Master Regulus more (Except perhaps Kreacher). Kreacher is noticing that Miss Granger and Draco Malfoy's feet are almost touching under the table and that they are staring at each other more than most people are usually doing. Kreacher is glad that Draco Malfoy can have a friend at Hogwarts, because Kreacher is noticing that most of the other students are very cruel to the Pureblood great-nephew of my Mistress.

The game is lasting a long time but eventually it is Miss Granger who is the winner, and Kreacher is wondering if Draco Malfoy is letting her win. But Kreacher decides this is not true, because the Malfoy boy is very upset. He is ranting and raving that Miss Granger is cheating, and Miss Granger is laughing in a not-very-funny way because, she says, she is not needing to cheat when Draco Malfoy is making it so easy for her to win. Then Kreacher is understanding: they are playing to win some prize that both want very much.

Finally Draco Malfoy is handing Miss Granger a pointy little quill and a piece of parchment, and she is grinning.

"Fine, take it. What do I care if some ginger-headed loser gets detention or not?" Draco Malfoy is saying.

Kreacher knows that Miss Granger is very particular about following rules so he is surprised when she is waving her wand and setting fire to the quill and parchment until they are all burned up. Draco Malfoy is looking very angry but he is standing very close to Miss Granger before he is leaving her room.

Kreacher is hoping that Miss Granger and Draco Malfoy are not acting this way with all of their friends, because when Kreacher is trying it on the other Elves they are running away from him.

* * *

SLUGHORN

It's important not to pay too much mind to these rumors the students come up with, as there are so very many of them one can hardly keep up. For instance, I remember Damocles Urqhart—an old student of mine, now Head of the Department of International magical Cooperation, incidentally—used to have a long-running grudge against Mafalda Hopkirk. He would make up the most sordid stories about her, most amusing. I suspect he was motivated by a broken heart.

Still, sometimes one does have an inkling that these flighty rumors may be based in truth. I began to suspect something was amiss at the Christmas party I threw for the Slug Club in my office. Miss Granger was unable to attend my previous soirée because of a scheduling conflict—most unfortunate, of course, and she was so _very_ sorry to miss it. But I managed to rearrange my schedule to make absolutely certain that Miss Granger could make it, for which she was very grateful, of course.

As for young Mr Malfoy, I had arranged to have him cater the event as part of his detention for storming out of my classroom the week before. Most peculiar, indeed. I had set the seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins the manageable, if complex task of brewing Amortentia, when all of a sudden the boy simply stood up and left, leaving all of his things behind.

Now, call me old-fashioned, but I don't care how rough a go of it he's had this year, that is simply no way to behave!

The evening of the party got off to a roaring start, if I do say so. Miss Ginevra Weasley's antics with the mead were a great success, as always, and I managed to arrange a surprise appearance by Gwenog Jones, a favorite of all the students. But it was Granger's entrance that got the greatest reaction. She had obviously gone to some lengths to prepare, which is exactly the sort of dedication and spirit I like to see. Her dress was a radiant deep purple and her hair not nearly such a disaster as is her custom. It's no wonder all the eager young bucks in her year began clamoring for a chance to dance with her, though she seemed less than enthused to oblige.

It is a favorite hobby of mine to keep up to date with the emotional well-being of my students from afar. It is often quite clear that they are in need of guidance. Thenceforth my attention was engaged with the box of crystallized pineapple generously provided by Gwenog, and the slew of young men kept at bay by Miss Granger. As the evening wore on and she danced with Dean Thomas, Ernie Macmillan, and Anthony Goldstein, I could not help but take notice of the disintegrating state of my party. The culprit: Malfoy's lack of interest in continuing to serve drinks, his attention being too thoroughly focussed upon Granger. It was a wonder that she could not feel his eyes glaring daggers into her back.

Oho! A little budding romance is nothing but a blessing at any time. Still, it was most unprofessional conduct, and I informed Malfoy in no uncertain terms that it was not to continue. Now, there is a young man unaccustomed to being contradicted. I can only imagine Miss Granger might do him a world of good.

To this end, I resolved to pair them up in all subsequent Potions lessons. It was evident that Granger saw through my game at once, but she made no protest. Of course, when one pairs the Head Boy and Girl quick work is to be expected. However even by the highest standards Granger and Malfoy worked exceptionally well as a team. All the more surprising when one considers they spoke not a word to each other. Never have I seen a more impeccable Befudlement Draught on a first try.

Rather unfortunate for the poor Parkinson girl, who was near to tears by the end of the lesson. Ah, the pangs of young love!

I am an imperfect man, so I will admit to some portion of error here. It is perhaps true that I ought to have noticed the way Miss Parkinson nudged Mr Theodore Nott, urging him to his feet as Granger rose from her seat to hand in a vial of her potion.

Then that hateful, irredeemable word. _Mudblood_. I prefer not even to think of it.

The word slipped from Nott's mouth—an accident, I should like to hope, though I can own it is a naive hope—as he stuck out his leg and tripped Granger in the middle of the classroom. I believe he meant it to be inconspicuous, and indeed I would not have noticed the trick had I not turned around to avoid fumes from a particularly foul-smelling cauldron at that very moment. Miss Granger fell flat on her face, to general alarm, the vial of potion smashing against the floor and spraying onto her face. There was a cut on her chin from a stray piece of glass. Easy enough for me to heal, but I confess I was most grievously disappointed in Mr Nott. A week's worth of detentions was a lenient punishment, even. Shocking display.

What was even more shocking, however, was the way Malfoy dispensed with his wand and attempted a Muggle duel with Nott in the middle of the dungeon, punching him soundly in the nose. Oho, and there are those who say Slytherins are absent of chivalry! I must admit that in this case I contented myself with taking points for Malfoy's actions, rather than resorting to detention.

As the class looked on in perfect discomfiture, Malfoy pulled Granger to her feet and seized her underneath her chin to examine her injury. The Befuddlement Draught had taken effect by then, and Granger looked back at him with much confusion as I attempted to clear up the mess and intervene. Not entirely to my surprise, Granger looked at Malfoy without recognition, though after a moment something sparked in her eyes and she leapt forward to kiss Malfoy right there in front of everyone.

Now, now, I tried to remind everyone. She'd been confunded after all.

Understandably, the young man jumped back against his desk and looked at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, which, of course, she had. For the second time that month Malfoy walked out of my classroom without permission. This time, I allowed it.

The sight of Granger giggling and looking unsure of herself was a novel experience. At last two of her classmates stepped forth to escort her to the hospital wing, while I was left to siphon the spilled potion from the dungeon floor.

One might perhaps call it a flight of fancy, but I see a great deal of hope in the partnership of Granger and Malfoy. Why, were not Slytherin and Gryffindor themselves once the best of friends? I recall how fiercely Lily—lovely, and ever missed—fought with James Potter before they finally found a way to tolerate one another. For however short a time, they became a force to be reckoned with.

The potion siphoned from the floor, of course, was perfectly brewed. The first in a long series of Outstandings that year.

* * *

PANSY

Granger's always been an insufferable cow.

I kept telling Draco, all through Christmas holiday, _what the hell do you think you're doing with her?_ And he kept telling me, _why the hell do you listen to stupid rumors?_ But was it a rumor when she kissed him in Potions? All right, she was befuddled, but that's not my problem. Was it a rumor when he hit Nott in the face? Nott!

Draco is practically perfect—He's gorgeous, of course, and clever and all that, and _rich_ as Croesus. But he's delicate. His mother explained it to me once. He's easily influenced and he wants so badly for people to like him, though he'd rather be turned into a Flobberworm than be described that way. Someone as filthy and uncivilized as Granger would break him down in no time, get him all turned around until he didn't know which way was up anymore.

It's already happening. It's making me so angry I could spit.

I know all the signs. If Draco starts to grind his jaw when he's denying something, it means you've hit a nerve. That's how I could tell his protests were all empty air this holiday. _Don't be a moron, Pansy, I wouldn't touch Granger for all the gold in Gringott's_, when you say it without meeting the person's eyes, sounds more like, _Please don't tell my mother!_

And that—that bloody—_owl!_

_Potter's_ owl, for the love of all that's holy. I recognized it, no problem. Everyone at Hogwarts knew whose damn owl that was. And no matter how topsy-turvy the world's become, I refuse to believe Draco is willfully corresponding with the Boy Who Wouldn't Die.

Granger doesn't have an owl of her own. It stands to reason she's using Potter's to send Draco mysterious messages. It's happened six times.

I'm no one's fool and I'm not about to let him go without a fight. I saw the way his hands jumped to her waist, you see, when she kissed him. A second before he pushed her away and ran out with this look on his face that was trying to be disgusted. Draco's hands are supposed to be mine. His hair and his lips and his bloody _money_ are all meant for me.

But I've got an in now. The last time I caught Draco reading one of those damn letters he looked more put out than I'd seen him in months, and he crumpled it up in his hand and threw it at the wall. I waited until he was gone to smuggle some of his father's whiskey from the drawing room to pick up the letter and read it. All it said was:

_Malfoy,_

_You win. I'm calling your bluff. For the last time, this is in exchange for your word. You won't tell anyone._

_HG_

Who knew Granger had a little scheming in her? I always thought of her mainly as Potter's swotty little hag. But it doesn't matter, because this isn't Mudblood territory. I'm going to find out what the hell he has on her that he mysteriously isn't willing to reveal.

He's not touching her like that again.

* * *

LAVENDER

I was all for Hermione and her new flavor of the month. I don't mean to sound spiteful, really I don't, it's just that anything to keep Ron fancy-free is all right in my book. I've waited too long to give up now. I missed my chance the last time, and, all right, I might have gone a bit far with the necklace and the nicknames and all. I remember Parvati tried so hard not to laugh when she said "_My Sweetheart? Really?_" Well, I meant it from the heart...

That's all to say that I support Hermione. She and I have had our differences but she's always been brilliant, and she saved my life. I wish good things for her, just not... _that_, in particular. Anything but Ron.

Ever since I started working as a junior correspondent for _Witch Weekly_ I've been flooded with owls every week bearing rumors about Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Being immortalized on Chocolate Frog cards and receiving Orders of Merlin, First Class has made them a hot topic, to say the least. I've seen every story, every combination. Ginny Weasley scorned by an affair between Harry and Hermione, descends into alcoholism (no need to investigate much to figure out that one doesn't hold any water). Ron and Hermione eloping to Paris (I may have topped off many a glass of wine that day, but again, all fiction). And then, increasingly often the last few months, the name Draco Malfoy started cropping up.

_Malfoy heir to be disinherited for association with Muggleborn heroine Hermione Granger... Granger ditches Weasley for Malfoy; Potter furious... _Things like that.

I do like to indulge in a little gossip—who doesn't?—but I can usually tell what has the ring of truth. And the fact is that stories like this don't often come from nothing. There has to be a starting point, a grain of truth. And from what I'd been hearing from the old DA crowd, that's exactly what was going on.

Color me surprised. Malfoy may be quite nice to look at but he's a slimy git if ever there was one. Then again, much as I hate to admit it, after Krum and Ron I can't say Hermione is exactly known for poor taste.

I did a little digging. It absolutely was not personally motivated, not at all—it's my job to get to the bottom of a story! And what I found was pretty astounding. I've never been a star at Transfiguration like Hermione, or a Defense genius like Harry Potter, or even as good at Herbology as _Neville Longbottom_, but when I set my mind to it boy can I dig up a story. Rita Skeeter had better watch her back.

Through my contacts at Hogwarts I managed to trace the whole thing back to that horrid cow Pansy Parkinson, who seemed to assume that I would be on her side because of my history with Ron. I didn't do anything to discourage that notion. And that's how I found out that early in the year, Ginny Weasley cheated on an exam. That didn't seem like her, except that as it turns out, the night before the big Charms exam, her brother George got himself blackout drunk on a rooftop in Diagon Alley. Parkinson laughed about it, though I don't know how anyone could feel anything but sympathy for his loss.

He only contacted Ginny. And she, instead of wasting time alerting the authorities, snuck out of her dormitory and Flooed straight there to talk him down. Thank Merlin, it worked, though Parkinson didn't seem especially preoccupied about that.

The upshot, though, was that Ginny didn't get a chance to study for the exam. And if she'd failed, she would have been forced to resit the theoretical paper over the weekend and miss the first Quidditch match of the season—the same match old Slughorn had promised Gwenog Jones would attend to scout Ginny for her team.

So Ginny got herself a special, undetectable Auto-Answer Quill from her brother's shop for the exam. But Malfoy found her out, maybe because of his extensive experience cheating his way to the top, I don't know. He used his Head Boy's privileges to sneak into her dormitory and confiscate the evidence and I guess he planned to hold it over Hermione's head so he could have her in his pocket while they were Heads together.

Hermione didn't tell Ginny she was being blackmailed, probably because she knew Ginny would want to turn herself in to make it easier on her. Instead, at some point, Hermione offered to play Malfoy for the evidence—the trick quill and the exam paper—at chess. But being the bigoted slimeball he is, Malfoy didn't count on her winning. When he had to hand over the evidence he wasn't satisfied, and he double-crossed her by writing to Harry at the Ministry, threatening to go to the papers and expose both Ginny and Hermione's involvement. His funds had been frozen by the Wizengamot until the end of his probation, and he wanted his gold released to him right away in exchange for his silence.

Parkinson was obviously convinced I was her big break: with my help, she could blow the story wide open and tarnish Hermione's precious, perfect reputation. I paid her the standard fee for printing rights to the whole affair. What I still can't understand, though, is how Hermione got Malfoy to agree not to rat her out. What could she have promised him?

In the end, Hermione's business belongs to her (and everyone at Hogwarts, of course; that's just the way it goes) but it doesn't belong on the front page. That's no way to win Ron back—I'm going to get him fair and square.

I never publicized the story.

* * *

LUNA

I don't think Hermione and Draco Malfoy know they've been victims of a colony of Corpulent Philibuzzers.

Not many people are aware of their existence, my father says. They're very tricky. They can take the shape of anything around them and replicate it completely as a form of disguise—transmutative chameleonism. I spoke to Professor McGonagall about it once. She seemed very interested, because her eyes bulged out of her head and she sat down very quickly. And these Philibuzzers have a special power. They give you one of the kindest gifts it's possible to give: the ability to let go of a grudge.

I knew right away they must have been at work when I saw Hermione having dinner with Malfoy at the Pumpkin Seed, the new pub in Hogsmead. Those two have done nothing but argue all year. Of course, it's difficult not to argue with Hermione sometimes, but I suppose it can be nice to argue with a friend. It keeps things interesting.

I didn't use to think it would be very nice to have dinner with Draco Malfoy, when I was a prisoner in his cellar for months. But after a while I noticed that the meals were only ever edible and warm when it was his turn to bring food down, and he was always mysteriously busy elsewhere when they used torture to interrogate me. I suppose the Philibuzzers may have gotten to me too; I know it wasn't _all_ Malfoy's fault.

Hermione and Malfoy didn't see me sitting at the table next to theirs. Sometimes I like to disillusion myself before I go out to the town. It saves me from having to wave at people who call me "_Loony Lovegood_." And observing people is important. There's always a lesson to be learned from every situation.

From where I was sitting, I could hear Hermione asking Malfoy how long she had to stay.

She can really be very nice when she wants to, but she needs to work on her social skills a bit. I found it to be a pretty rude question. But Malfoy didn't look upset. He gave her that sneer he always does, except without tossing his nose up in the air like he's looking at a slug under his shoe like usual. And he told her as long as he wanted her to stay, because that was their agreement.

"I can't believe you've blackmailed me into sitting with you in a pub when I could be studying. I mean, what on earth is the point of this?" Hermione asked him, still not exhibiting the best table manners. Gulping Plimpy farming, Ministry corruption, and the price of solid gold broomsticks are all much better topics of conversation, I've found.

Malfoy was being pretty gallant and ignoring all her faux pas, though. Hermione is very pretty, so I'm sure it wasn't difficult. He said that he got satisfaction just from making her life miserable. I've noticed this has always been true about Malfoy. It's not a very attractive trait, but we've all got our flaws.

"And then," he added, "I also thought it might be a chance for me to slip a Befuddlement Draught into your drink."

Hermione got very flustered and went on about how he ought to remember what had happened the last time she'd been befuddled, for heaven's sake. I heard from Romilda Vane that the last time she got befuddled Hermione snogged Malfoy in a broom closet, but she told me it wasn't true. Malfoy's smirk got bigger.

"Yes," he said. "I do remember."

And then he kissed her. She seemed too shocked to move at first—though that can often be a side-effect of the Philibuzzers—but his hands were holding her face and he wouldn't let her go, and then she started to kiss him back. Well, that was quite nice for them. I can't say I was surprised; people who stare at each other as much as they'd been doing all year end up kissing eventually, I've observed.

There wasn't much left to learn and my tea had gone cold, so I left. When I looked back through the pub window on the my way down the lane, they were still kissing.


	3. Sonata

**A/N: **As promised, a Veela fic! In this, though, Hermione is the Veela. (Gasp! But Draco is blond, he has to be the one! Yeah, well, this is a world with unicorns and talking portraits, I can do whatever I want.) Next up will be that unavoidable horror, the Makeover!Hermione fic. Enjoy, and drop me a line in the reviews if you'd like to request a specific subject for one of these fics. Cheers!

PS: Just fyi, I checked, and Christmas really did fall on a Friday in 1998, and a Saturday in 1999. Pretty neat stuff. Kthxbai.

* * *

**SONATA**

_The trouble had crept up on her like a midnight breeze, a thief in the dark. It seemed to Hermione as though one morning she had been waking safely in her own bed, anticipating a day of exam preparation and perhaps a warm breakfast, and all of a sudden, by sundown, she was neck deep in dysfunction of the worst kind._

_The clearing around her was crystalline, resplendent with the glimmer of freshly fallen snow. From her perch atop a frost-covered boulder Hermione could see miles ahead to the staunch outline of the immense, handsome house standing out against a courtyard that was a sea of white under the moon. Her feet were bare and she wore only a thin cotton nightgown, but she hardly noticed the cold. Icy winds were nothing: the object of her debilitating obsession was in sight._

_Disregarding the ache from the ribbon of flesh that had been torn from her forearm when she had splinched herself, Hermione bounded forward, wand in hand, to face the front gates of Malfoy Manor._

FRIDAY

One week earlier found Hermione dragging her trunk along behind her as she was born along by the tide of students pressing their way to the doors at the end of her compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Ducking to check her reflection in the glass, Hermione caught sight of a small party of figures in winter cloaks waiting for her out on the platform. Not only Harry but Bill, Fleur, and Ron as well. Ron most of all. She hitched a nervous smile on her face. It was nice of him to come meet her, she supposed. Then again, perhaps he was here mainly for Ginny. Judging by Harry's impatient, fidgeting stance, he certainly was.

"Hurry up!" Ginny exclaimed behind her, and Hermione realized that she had been blocking the door. Flustered, she gave her trunk a mighty heave, overbalanced, and toppled out onto the icy pavement of the platform, cracking her head violently against the ground.

There was a moment of dizzying darkness in which the world swayed and she was certain that she was about to lose consciousness. Then pain shot through her head and she heard screams, as well as a few shocked oaths. Ginny let out an especially loud string of curses before jumping down gracefully to Hermione's side and crouching down, touching her shoulder.

"Are you all right? Hermione! Open your eyes, Hermione, look at me."

Her head was pounding, but she could tell that there was no serious damage. If only she could get her bearings so she could assure them all that she was fine...

Ron's voice was loudest, rising in panic above the din, but it was Harry who quickly demanded the crowd back away and knelt at her side, his face tight with concern.

"Can you hear me?" he asked, flashing a look at a group of excitable third years that sent them running in fright.

"'M fine," she managed to respond, though the effort made her afraid that she might vomit all over him at any moment.

Even through the haze of bright, pulsing pain, however, she still managed to feel a pang of awkwardness when Ron knelt next to Harry and placed his hand on her face, a picture of concern. They might have parted ways on good terms, but—

"What are you staring at?" Ginny snapped at Romilda Vane, who was now standing in the door talking about "trollish clumsiness" in a loud stage whisper. "Go buy yourself another cauldronful of Sleekeazy's to pour on your head, not that it'll do you any good..."

"She's concussed," said Bill sharply. "We need to get her home, but we can't Apparate her like this."

"My muzzer is very talented with healing spells," Fleur piped up. "If 'Ermione agrees, I promise this will not 'urt."

Hermione sought Harry's gaze. When he gave a small nod she ground out a nervous, "Okay."

"If you will all give me just a leetle space," said Fleur imperiously, and the assembly backed away. Pointing her wand directly at Hermione's head, she cried, "_Instauraretis caput!_"

There was a tingling pressure on the back of Hermione's head, followed by a cooling numbness, and the pain seemed to evaporate all at once. She smiled, hoping this would suffice, as she was still rather shaken. She really wished people would _stop staring_; she was not used to being the center of attention outside of a classroom. This must have been how Harry felt every single day.

A lemon meringue pie would really have been nice just then.

Her thoughts were still coming to her a little jumbled, Hermione realized, and she attempted to get to her feet to demonstrate her incontrovertible sanity. The world swam before her eyes.

"You can sleep in the car, Hermione," said Bill, scooping her up and carrying her away. She only had time to gesticulate in the direction of her trunk, which Ron picked up immediately, before her eyes closed and she fell into a deep slumber.

She awoke thoroughly disoriented in an unfamiliar bed. A stray beam of dazzlingly bright moonlight was filtering through the curtained window of... Percy's old bedroom?

"You brought me to the Burrow?" she croaked, turning her head to face Harry and Ginny, standing at the door.

"It'll be fine, Hermione," said Harry. "Ron is all right with it."

"'Course he is," said Ginny in a tone that suggested that any other opinion expressed by Ron would meet with a rather unfriendly hex. "Besides, as soon as Mum heard she insisted we bring you here so she could look after you."

"But she doesn't know—"

"She does now. And she's in the kitchen, fixing you dinner."

Hermione felt it would be churlish to continue arguing, so she grinned at them, raising her arm to shield her eyes from the blinding moonlight.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry, frowning.

"I..." Hermione trailed off. What _was_ wrong with her? All the light was too bright, it burned her eyes. She could feel the fabric of the sheets beneath her arms, every single thread cool and distinct against her skin. She could smell mince pies cooking all the way downstairs. Her breath caught in her throat as her senses overwhelmed her, sending her into a panic, and she sat up too quickly. The blood must have rushed to her head, because the world wavered before her eyes and a hundred disjointed thoughts assailed her.

"Harry, are you wearing some kind of aftershave?" she asked, and Ginny raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"What? No... No I'm not."

"I can smell—Something's not quite right... I'm very hungry."

"What are you doing?" Ginny called after her as Hermione jumped out of bed and tore down the stairs.

_Smells, sounds, colours bright, too too bright..._

"Hermione, dear?" said Mrs Weasley in concern when Hermione barrelled into the kitchen, her eyes wild, her chest heaving. "My, you look a fright. Are you quite all right?"

But Hermione was already collapsing.

SATURDAY

"Zere is nothing wrong with her, she is seemply adapting to ze change. If you 'ad told me she has Veela blood I could 'ave warned you zis would happen."

"She _doesn't _have Veela blood."

"Evidently she does, or zis would not 'ave happened."

"And what is it that's happening, exactly?"

"Ze gene is very resilient. It was dormant in her, but now, because it has been exposed to Veela magic, it is waking up."

"Exposed to Veela magic?"

"Zere is Veela hair in ze core of my wand. My grandmuzzer's. When I cast ze healing charm on 'Ermione yesterday it recognized her ancestry. Zis has been known to happen before."

"But her parents are _Muggles—_"

"Zese things can stay dormant for up to eight generations. It would not 'ave been noticeable in her temperament when so far removed. Per'aps one of her great grandparents had a child with a Veela. Zese kinds of thing were frowned upon in ze past. It would 'ave been hushed up."

"... She doesn't _look_ like a Vee—"

"Ron!"

A muffled thump. A grunt of pain.

"_Argh!_ Gerrof! I'm only saying... Look, this is mad. What does it all mean?"

"It means zat she will be a leetle confused for ze next few weeks. Her senses will be sharper as she adapts. She will be more short-tempered, per'aps even a leetle dangerous. And she will be..."

A silence. A cleared throat.

"... What?"

"Veela are known to be very passionate, in particular during ze early years. While she is still learning to control her more... basic instincts, she may find that she has difficulty controlling her urges when her temper is tested."

"_Urges?_"

"Veela recognize aggression as power, and zis to zem is a very attractive quality. If anyone opposes her, makes her angry, she will want to..."

"Oh. _Oh!_"

"What the hell are we supposed to do about that?"

"If she's a danger to herself we can't let her go wandering about. We should just keep her in the house until she's recovered."

"She won't like that."

"Zat 'Ermione!" A shake of the head. "As if she was not already willful enough."

SUNDAY

Draco trudged through the stacks of mind-bendingly boring eighteenth century magical encyclopaedias in the rare books section of Flourish and Blott's, trailing a finger languorously over the leather spines and wishing for a drink from the bottom of his soul.

At last he found the dusty old book he was looking for, slid it from the shelf, and leafed through it until he found the folded up piece of parchment that had been tucked between two pages. Always the same book, always the same time of day. It felt like a mockery—the kind of thing Muggles would resort to doing because they could manage no better. It had been so much better when Skeeter had been at the top of her form, and he'd been able to communicate with her in broad daylight on the Hogwarts grounds.

Saint Granger had put an end to that, in typical sensational fashion. What kind of a lunatic forced a woman to live inside a jar for weeks on end?

Draco unfolded the parchment and read the few short lines that had been scrawled in acid green, his lip curling.

_Draco,_

_Will require proof of allegations brought against all you've named, especially in case of endangerment of Ministry officials. Think we can spin this into a bestseller. Report back on usual date._

_RS_

After he had memorized the text Draco flicked his wand, and the parchment vanished in a puff of dust. As he pulled out a quill to begin jotting down a return message he heard the plaintive notes of a voice that sent him backing away slowly. Surely she would not be here of all places? He was only imagining it because he had just been thinking of her.

"If you're going to keep me locked up like a prisoner the least you can do is let me have something to read!"

Frowning, Draco slid the book back on its shelf and ducked low to catch a glance of the three people in the world he least wished to see standing just one row over. At first he thought they were engaging in some bizarre three-person embrace and he nearly choked on his horror. But Granger was still protesting and attempting to pull away from Weasley, glaring at him and hissing her discontent much more fiercely than Draco would have thought her capable of.

"We told you one hour, Hermione, then home," said Potter sternly. "It's been almost _five_ hours."

"This is ridiculous—"

"This is for your own safety," Weasley chimed in. "And everyone else's. You nearly set the house on fire trying to hex a lawn gnome!"

"Ron, I really wish you'd shut up sometimes."

Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Since when had Granger developed such a smart mouth? For a moment it was almost as though he was not the only person on the planet aware of Weasley's utter uselessness. Then Granger's eyes widened in remorse and she began to stutter out apologies. Ah, well.

"Ron, I'm sorry, you know I didn't mean it—"

"We're leaving," said Weasley resolutely. In an instant Granger's eyes flashed and she was combative again. What in the hell had gotten into her?

"Er, we can afford to stay a bit longer," Potter began, attempting to make peace, but Granger had already slipped away and was headed around the shelves towards his section. Swearing furiously, Draco turned to leave, but the hem of his robe caught on the book he had just replaced, which toppled to the floor. He shoved it back in place and turned his back on the shelves, but it was too late.

"Malfoy?"

Just his effing luck, he thought, wincing inwardly. He had no desire to see another face full of judgment, or to hold his tongue when all he wanted was to throw a sharp taunt her way to make himself feel better for owing his life to her friends. And he sure as hell did not want to face Potter and Weasley. But Granger did not sound inclined to call them over. She had spoken his name as though she had never heard it before. Gritting his teeth, Draco turned to look at her.

There was something different about her. She looked the same, as snooty, and just as bushy-haired. She spoke the same and held herself the same. But she was _not_ the same. He could not place his finger on it.

Composing his face into something like a sneer, he said, "Lost, Granger? The know-it-all's section is that way."

Her jaw clenched and her nostrils flared. Had she always been so tightly wound? The air around her was practically crackling, and a pink flush was creeping up her cheeks. She looked as though she'd just been ravaged—

He stopped that thought in its tracks and crossed his arms. There was no need to push his luck. Nowadays the word 'Mudblood' stuck in his throat in all but the shadiest of company.

To his alarm, Granger stalked right up to him until they were practically nose to nose and tilted her head slightly to the side. And then—she inhaled deeply, as though she were _smelling_ him. Draco wanted to sprint away as fast as his legs would carry him, but something was rooting him to the spot. _She_ smelled like honey and rain.

"Hermione, _what are you doing?_" Potter appeared and looked between them, at first bewildered. Then understanding came into his eyes and he yelped. Draco wished he would share some of that understanding, because this situation was beyond him.

Throwing suspicious glances at Draco, potter dragged Granger away, his hand clenching in his pocket over what Draco was certain was his wand.

"You want to keep the crazy bint away from me?" Draco called out.

"She's just a little... overwrought," Potter muttered. "Just... stay away from her, Malfoy."

"Yeah, gladly."

She threw him a look over her shoulder as Potter frogmarched her down the aisle, and he could have sworn she licked her lips.

* * *

Hermione waited until Malfoy had left the bookstore, and Harry and Ron had gotten to arguing over what to do with her, before slinking back into the rare books section to snatch up the book Malfoy had been looking at. She could smell him on it.

She had wanted to throw him against the shelves and rip off his clothes with her _teeth_. Where in the world had that impulse come from? He had made her angry, she supposed, taunting her. Fleur had explained the ramifications of anger, but she had not expected it to be quite so overpowering.

She was accustomed to having full command of her brain. Facts and memories were filed away and ready to be called up with perfect clarity at any moment. She could decipher any enigma if she set her mind to it. She did not allow her judgment to be swayed by her emotions.

And yet, ever since the incident on platform nine and three quarters, she had been in the grips of such violent mood swings that she had alienated her entire household, nearly reduced Ron to tears, and set her bedroom on fire. After this last incident she had insisted, on threat of many a nasty jinx, that Harry and Ron let her out so that she could obtain as many books as possible on the subject of latent Veela characteristics. If she was going to be at the mercy of her own instincts she wanted to be thoroughly prepared to counteract any of the wilder notions that came to her when she was not herself.

She had also written a lengthy, rather furious owl to her parents, demanding to know how in God's name she had never been informed of her heritage. Unsurprisingly, however, her parents had written back to tell her that this was the first they were hearing of it.

Hermione let out a sigh that turned into a groan of frustration. She had tried so hard to minimize the fallout from this unfortunate turn of events, to manage her impulses, control everything. And here she was, hiding from Harry and Ron and imagining the feel of Malfoy's hair in her hands, the skin of his shoulders, his back...

She opened the book and the pages fell open to an existing crease in the spine, revealing a piece of parchment with half a line of messy writing scrawled across the top.

_Rita, _

_Will return with more—_

Here the writing broke off, she supposed, because she had interrupted him. The name inscribed at the top of the parchment made her blood boil as she tried to imagine what Malfoy might be up to. What nefarious reason could he have to be colluding with Rita Skeeter this time? She was going to find out, track him down, and lick a trail all down his chest to his—

_Merlin's pants!_ Hermione reined in her imagination and replaced the parchment carefully in the book, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. If all else failed she could simply stake out the aisles until Skeeter appeared to collect the message.

"Hermione!" Harry's voice called after her. "Time to get going!"

"Where is she _now?_" she heard Ron mutter fretfully.

It was a good thing she had given up trying to feel any real irritation towards the pair of them ages ago.

MONDAY

Try as he might, Draco could not get Granger's peculiar damn outburst out of his mind. What had Potter said? She was 'overwrought.'

What Potter did not know was that Draco had shared an Arithmancy class with Granger for four years. Little though he cared to, he knew all her moods. She was not so self-contained when Potter and Weasley were not around, perhaps because she did not feel the need to mother them and keep them out of trouble. He had seen Granger overwrought when exams came around: her eyes took on a frantic light and she developed a hundred nervous ticks and she snapped at anyone in the vicinity, but she certainly did not invade his personal space and act as though she were about to snog him senseless.

If she had done any of that before, things at Hogwarts would have become unbearable very quickly. Not that Draco liked to think about the times he had slipped up; he had shut those away in a dark corner of his mind. There was the time when she'd walked into class the first morning after Christmas holiday in fourth year, and all he could do, to his consternation, was picture her in her Yule Ball gown. She had corrected him after he had given Vector a disinterested answer, unable to focus, and he had been rendered incoherent by anger. How _dare _she act so high and mighty to him, just because she'd taken some jumped up celebrity to the ball? Her hair was pinned back and the line of her shoulder as she raised her hand for the hundredth time was simply delectable.

Later that evening she had popped back into his head as he wanked furiously in his dormitory. _Mudblood_, his mind had hurled at him, _disgusting, filthy_. And he'd come harder than he'd ever done in his life, painting and filled with shame. A form of subconscious rebellion, most likely. At the time it had only given him cause to despise her more.

Her behaviour at Flourish and Blott's had been entirely uncharacteristic, and if he wanted to avoid becoming fixated on her again—and he _desperately_ did—he might need to do a bit of investigating.

* * *

A furtive glance over each shoulder. A hand reaching for a book.

"Hello Rita."

"What the hell do you w—Hermione Granger!"

"It's been too long, don't you think?"

"Still nothing better to do than torment me, then, Little Miss Perfect?"

"I just wanted to congratulate you on renewing your collaboration with Draco Malfoy. That is why you're here, isn't it? To exchange notes?"

A furious smile. Cold eyes.

"And you're here to foil me?"

"I don't want a confrontation. All I want is to know what you're up to with Malfoy."

"Why so calm, Miss Prissy?"

"I'm not going to allow myself to get angry at you. That would be very bad for me."

"Of course. You're just here for a little friendly blackmail."

"Think of it as exchanging gifts. You give me the information I want, and I give you my continued silence on the subject of your little secret."

A satchel reluctantly opened. A rustle of paper against cloth. "There, Miss Perfect, is this what you wanted?"

A gasp. "That _bastard!_"

TUESDAY

He next saw her at the weekly private party at the Three Broomsticks. She had given Potter and Weasley the slip, or else it was actually possible for those three to venture out of doors absent of the others' company. She was darting murderous looks all around the upper level of the bar where the most expensive drinks were served, and was it possible that she had known he would be here? That she was actually looking for him? This most definitively was not Granger's crowd.

The moment she set eyes on him she began to stalk up the stairs, moving fluidly like a predator on the prowl.

"Malfoy!"

She need not have called him out so angrily. He was waiting for her, standing his ground. This _was_ his crowd, and to hell if someone like _her_ was going to come in and throw whatever accusations she had planned at him.

"Don't talk," she snapped, stopping just a little too close and facing him. "Don't say a word."

There was definitely something different about her. Something more. It was like she had finally given herself license to unleash the temper she had so clearly possessed all these years. And no wonder, too, with all the time she spent in Weasley's company. Anyone would have been high strung.

"What's Skeeter promised you?" she demanded, tapping her foot impatiently and waving away a cloud of smoke forming around her head. The pub was as crowded as it had ever been.

Draco swore under his breath and glared at her. She had figured it out bloody fast. He tried to bluff his way out, but with a brain like hers, he knew before he'd started it was no use.

"What are you on about?"

"Shut up. Tell me, just _tell me._"

He sneered to indicate his lack of concern with her rage. Bluffing, again.

"She has a contact at the Ministry who can get my name stricken from certain sensitive records."

"Death Eater rosters?"

There was no need to nod. She already knew.

"And that's worth selling out a man who died trying to help you?" she practically bellowed.

"I don't know how the Muggles do it, Granger, but 'round here stalking a school rival all up and down Diagon Alley to bring up rubbish like this is—"

She stepped closer, her chest heaving with righteous indignation, and for some reason she was badly flushed and her lips were half parted—she seemed to practically be straining against herself—and for a moment Draco was gripped by a madness that made him want nothing more than to throw her against the stairway railing and take her in front of the entire pub. Mastering himself, he looked her up and down in disdain and then glanced around for security. Perhaps he could have her thrown out.

Except that no self-respecting establishment in Wizarding Britain would turn away Hermione Granger. Weary of continuing to put on such a spectacle, Draco nodded in the direction of a small coat room in the corner where they could talk in relative privacy. It at least had a door.

As it turned out, this was a miscalculation. Increased proximity to Granger in the confined space of the coat room did nothing to calm either of their nerves.

"Snape's dead," Draco told her with as much contempt as he could muster. "He doesn't care what story I cook up for Skeeter. Besides, most of it's true—"

"The wrong side of the truth, Malfoy! _Severus Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?_ He was a hero and one of the bravest wizards ever to fight Voldemort. He deserves better." She rolled her eyes when he flinched involuntarily at the sound of the Dark Lord's name and hissed sarcastically, "Oh, be more irritating, would you?"

"What the hell's gotten into you, Granger? Has that enormous head of yours finally collapsed in on itself?"

"I'm leaving," she said abruptly. Her hands were trembling, he realized. "Don't you dare go through with that book. You'll be sorry if you do."

But Draco threw his arm up to prevent her from opening the door. With rapid seeker's reflexes he used his other arm to pin her hands above her head so that she could not reach for her wand. The brief flicker of fear in her eyes made unpleasant echoes of her screams surface in his memory—_mere feet away from him, screaming and twitching on the floor, Bellatrix laughing... _Something toxic that he hated to label as guilt bubbled in his stomach, but the fear in her eyes was quickly replaced by pure spite and something less easily definable.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Granger, so stop squirming." _Please stop it, because it's making me hard._ "Now, you're going to tell me what's going on and why you're taking such an interest. I don't need you following me around, I already see enough of you at school."

Her voice came out strangled when she answered him, and her eyes—was it an illusion, a trick of the light?—kept dropping to his lips.

"I've recently learned there was a Veela on a distant arm of my family tree. I have a very small, almost nonexistent fraction of Veela blood."

"Is that a bloody joke?"

"I wish it was. I was healed by a wand with a Veela hair core a few days ago and it sort of... _galvanized_ the gene into action."

Draco stared at her for a full ten seconds. "Well, that explains it," he muttered.

"What?"

"There's just something about you, isn't there?" He was speaking more to himself than to her. Evidently this was not the answer she had been expecting, because her eyes widened, and he became concerned that she might be mistaking his meaning. "Something insufferable and snobbish," he specified.

She gave him an odd, very intense look. "Malfoy, do you know anything about Veela?"

"Shiny hair, perfect features, nasty tempers."

"Veela are hardwired to recognize anger, aggression, and even hatred as a challenge," she recited. He suspected she was physiologically incapable of not lecturing people on subjects about which she knew more than they did—which happened to be all subjects. "They see it as a show of power, and power is the foremost characteristic assessed when hunting for a mate. No matter how little interest someone grappling with Veela instincts has in engaging with a person, if that person makes them angry..."

_What?_ He could not decide if he had understood her correctly. But she was practically panting by now, and her eyes were burning holes into his torso.

"So what you're doing right _now,_" she practically growled, "is not exactly helping my efforts to stay away from you." Then she did the most mind-boggling thing he could have imagined and ground her hips against his, apparently involuntarily. His breath caught in his throat.

Holy hell, she was serious. He let her go as if burned and fell back against the wall, dumbstruck. She left quickly and without a word, without so much as a backwards glance. And he simply could not deny to himself that he regretted letting her go.

WEDNESDAY

Hermione slipped out while Mrs Weasley was attempting to force Harry to eat a fifth helping of breakfast and ran into the yard, intending to Apparate to Flourish and Blott's to do some more research. Instead, to her consternation, she found herself materializing in the Three Broomsticks, in the precise spot where Malfoy had nearly made her lose her mind the night before. Reaching up to feel the side of her head, she felt a small bald patch and realized that she had splinched herself. She waved her wand and the hair was replaced instantly, but Hermione felt hollow. She had never lost her focus while Apparating before.

"You can't keep doing this, you know," Harry told her later that day while she sat on the floor of her bedroom, flipping through several books at once so violently that the pages kept tearing. "You need to stay put, or next time you could hurt yourself badly. Fleur says you'll be under control in a week or two, just in time for Hogwarts. Just wait until then..."

"Harry, I've stopped listening to you because I really don't think you want me to get angry at you."

THURSDAY

Draco turned into Knockturn Alley, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder. A heavy bag full of gold clinked in his pocket. When he reached the third door on the left he knocked rapidly and disappeared inside.

FRIDAY

It was Christmas day. Hermione's gifts included a special edition extended version of _Hogwarts, A History_ from Harry—which she'd already read in fourth year, _twice_—a jewellery box charmed to sing lullabies from Ron—utterly useless as she had no jewellery—and a traditional knitted sweater from Mrs Weasley—itchy and much too hot. She thanked them all as warmly as she could manage before hauling the items up to her adopted bedroom and stuffing them out of sight under her bed.

Her nails were chewed ragged. She watched the sunset from her window without emotion, listening to the grating sound of Celestina Warbeck's annual holiday broadcast blaring out of the wireless down in the kitchen. She pictured stalking down the stairs and bashing the wooden wireless in with her bare fists.

Would it be so bad to pay Malfoy just a quick visit? The deprivation of his company was wreaking havoc on her state of mind. She knew that she was growing insufferable and intolerant towards the Weasleys and Harry, which was really the last thing she wanted. And in fact, all she meant to do was assure herself that he was not carrying on with the book about Snape (Harry would be so upset if he knew). And perhaps to smell his skin and run her fingers through his hair and give him a good slap across the face.

She would never get past the assembled forces of the Weasley family if she attempted to use the front door, so instead Hermione simply climbed out the window. She had never been athletic—the life-threatening aerial acrobatics of Quidditch had never appealed to her in the slightest—but she was determined, and she clung on to the narrow drainpipe that descended into the garden for dear life. When her feet hit the ground she realized that she had already changed into her nightgown and had no shoes on, but it was far too late to climb back up. She barely registered the cold. Hermione snuck to the edge of the property and Disapparated, thinking only of Malfoy.

She came out in a clearing resplendent with the glimmer of freshly fallen snow. Her feet had landed on a frost-covered boulder, and Hermione could see miles ahead to the staunch outline of Malfoy Manor. Her arm stung, and after a moment she noticed that a long ribbon of flesh had been torn from her forearm: she had splinched herself again.

Disregarding this completely, Hermione bounded forward, wand in hand, to face the front gates of Malfoy Manor. The gates were protected by powerful enchantments, but Hermione had read the reports on ex-Death Eater security measures which Harry kept on his desk, and she knew how to undo them. With a few swishes of her wand she was through, and sprinting full tilt at the house. Malfoy must have glimpsed her through a window, because within moments he was running out the door towards her, his face torn between disbelief, horror, and dismay.

"What the hell are you doing here, Granger?" he bellowed, grasping her roughly by the arm to stop her in her tracks—his hand was warm oh Merlin his skin was soft...

"I just—wanted..." What _had_ she wanted? All at once Hermione could not remember. Her mind was a confused blur, a novel sensation she was entirely unequipped to deal with.

"Just get out of here! Go home!"

"No. No I can't do that." The pain in her arm was beginning to throb in earnest despite the cold.

"It's Christmas, Granger. My parents are _here._"

"Oh, lovely. Our last meeting didn't go so well. Do you think it's too late to make a second impression?"

"This isn't funny!" His eyes darted to her mangled arm and her bare feet and he swore under his breath. "You're going to freeze to death on my property. Damn it all... Tilly!" The moment he shouted the name a very young—or at least very small—House Elf materialized in front of them. "Heal this mess up and Apparate us directly into my room. _Now._"

It was a mark of the severity of Hermione's bloodloss that she could not muster the will to tell Malfoy off for his rudeness to the Elf. To her immense relief, with a snap of Tilly's fingers her arm was healed, and immediately the Elf took both of their hands and Apparated them to a vast, handsome bedroom decorated all in green and silver.

Typical.

"You can go," said Malfoy dismissively. Hermione managed to croak out a hurried "Thank you" before the Elf vanished, and then they were alone.

Hermione's head swam violently. She staggered back and he knees hit a wooden post, sending her toppling back onto Malfoy's bed. She expected him to protest, but instead a rather wolfish grin appeared on his face and she became aware of how very thin her nightgown really was.

"You look a fright, Granger," he drawled, his eyes narrowing maliciously. "An absolute mess. Not that you don't always look a mess."

His skin was glowing in the darkness, his throat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. As she bristled at the comment, Hermione thought that if she had been any less drained at that moment she would have leapt at Malfoy and wrapped her legs around him with no regard for the consequences.

"If you're here to harp on about Skeeter again, you're wasting your time," he went on. "The book deal's been signed. It's done."

"I—You—_What?_"

"You heard me."

"Are you... trying to make me angry on _purpose?_"

The corners of his mouth twitched and he watched her intently. As she attempted to sit up on the bed Hermione realized that her arm and the side of her nightgown were still covered in blood. Her _blood_ was staining his comforter. He seemed not to care or notice.

"Perhaps you'll stop sticking your great bushy head in where it doesn't belong, now," he said very quietly, stepping closer to her.

Hermione was not aware that she had moved. All she knew was that her arm had suddenly shot up and grasped Malfoy by the collar, pulling him down on top of her. She gasped as his weight pressed down against her, and reached out to grasp his hair, just like she'd imagined. If he was surprised he did not show it. He ran his hands up her sides and whispered in her ear, "You're clumsy as hell."

"Unbelievable," she hissed. She was aware that he was still trying to make her angry, but she was unable to stop herself from reacting. She clenched her teeth, her lips hovering an inch from his as she breathed in the scent of his skin...

And then a roar of laughter and cheers erupted somewhere downstairs—a Christmas party, the _Malfoys_ were throwing a Christmas party—and Hermione experienced a moment of startling clarity in which she remembered where she was.

Malfoy Manor. She had been here before, bound and gagged. Things had happened to her here that she would never forget.

"I'm stronger than this," she whispered, her lips just brushing Malfoy's as she spoke.

He froze. She pushed him off her and scrambled away, still shaky from bloodloss.

Before he could say anything she was out the window once more.

SATURDAY – ONE YEAR LATER

Christmas the following year was a much pleasanter affair. Ginny sat in the Burrow's kitchen with her head on Harry's shoulder and an engagement ring on her hand. Ron sat across from them holding a smiling Katie Bell's hand. Hermione helped Mrs Weasley set the table and very nearly managed to enjoy Celestina Warbeck's broadcast. With her Veela temper largely under control, she did not set anything on fire.

When eight o'clock rolled around, however, she stood up to announce that she had to drop off some paperwork at the Ministry.

"Are you mad?" said Ron incredulously. "It's Christmas dinner and you want to go into the office?"

"Just let her go, you know she won't be happy until she does," Ginny cut in, rolling her eyes.

Flashing Ginny a grateful look and promising to return shortly, Hermione threw on a winter cloak and Apparated to the Ministry. Once in her office in Magical Creatures Hermione dropped a twelve page report in her out-tray and spotted a neatly wrapped Christmas package on her desk. Frowning, she unwrapped it to find a brand new copy of...

_Severus Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?_

"You've got to be _joking,_" she muttered under her breath, her eyebrows flying up.

"How did I know I'd find you working on Christmas?" drawled a snide voice behind her, and Hermione turned to see Draco Malfoy leaning against her doorframe.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice shaking. She had not seen Malfoy since last year's Christmas—had been very careful, in fact, to avoid him at all costs. She had even relinquished her investigation into Skeeter's affairs for fear of running into him.

"Got a tip off from a friend you had some big report due," he replied airily. "I figured you wouldn't be able to wait until the end of holidays to hand it in. You never did know how to loosen up, Granger."

She flushed but faced him with a steely glare.

"I can't believe you went through with this. Snape was a good man."

"Turn to the last chapter, Granger."

Glancing at him suspiciously, Hermione opened the book and turned to the last chapter, titled _Death of a Legend: The Truth at Last._

"'_After extensive investigation, one can only conclude that seldom has the Wizarding World known so heroic a man_,'" Hermione read incredulously. "_Rita Skeeter_ wrote this?"

"I found, shall I say, an alternate connection into the Ministry who got my name stricken from the records. And for enough gold they were happy to _persuade_ Skeeter to change her angle."

"Illegal persuasion?" said Hermione distastefully.

"I don't like to say."

"That's so—"

"You wanted Snape commemorated, Granger, and now he is. So what's the problem?"

She looked at him curiously.

"Why did you change your mind?" she asked. "And why did you lie about it? You told me it was too late, the book vilifying Snape was a done deal."

"I suppose it amuses me to see you angry," he said a faint note of amusement. Hermione's heartbeat stuttered and her throat was very dry. "It makes you act such a fool."

"That doesn't work anymore," she told him tensely. "I've got control of it."

He stepped closer, backing her against the desk, and memories of the feel of him on top of her flooded back.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm—"

He kissed her. At long last, slow and insistent, he kissed her until her head spun, and wound his hands around her neck. All coherent thought flew away and Hermione wrapped her leg around him and pressed herself as close as she could. The book toppled to the floor.

"Make me angry again," she muttered as his mouth latched onto her throat, and she heard him laugh. It was amusing, really, that it had taken a concussive blow to the head to make this happen, because suddenly she could not remember why she had not been kissing him long before.

"You're irritating as all hell," he said, moving his hands to her waist and pressing kisses along her jaw. "A know-it-all. Insufferable. Beautiful."

Laughing, Hermione pulled him back up to kiss him again, and did not let go.


	4. Rhapsody

**RHAPSODY**

He bent her over the table and slid into her from behind, letting out a low hiss. She felt _incredible_. When he had collected himself he began to move to the sound of her gasps, reaching down to bite at the skin behind her ear and pin her arms to the table.

"Fuck, Granger," Draco bit out, thrusting faster with each word. "Where've—you—_been?_"

"Greece," she said succinctly, arching her back. "Chimera reservation. I had—oh my God..."

Smirking, he placed his hands on her hips to steady himself and sucked at the skin between her neck and shoulder, forcing a small moan from her. He could feel her beginning to lose control, and he himself was breathing harshly. A few minutes later she cried out and he collapsed on top of her, panting.

"That was—"

"Draco, I don't think I cast a silencing charm on the room."

"Too bloody bad."

She laughed and rolled out from under him. Draco could not quite believe he had once thought a laugh was a rare and unnatural thing coming from her. It was damn well the most appealing sound he had ever heard.

"Next Friday?" he asked as she began to pull on her plain black robes and tie her hair back in a loose knot. He fell back onto the bed still unclothed, crossing his arms behind his head and watching her.

She shook her head. "I can't. There's a gala at the Ministry for _Witch Weekly's_ Humanitarian of the Year Award."

"So skip out."

"I'm the guest of honour."

"Of course you are."

She turned to glare at him but her eyes glazed over and she wound up gaping unabashedly while Draco smirked, making no effort to cover himself.

"Might make that gala myself," he said idly.

Hermione pursed her lips. "Harry and Ron will be there."

"Then I'll take you under a table."

She paused on her way out the door, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "I might hold you to that."

How in Merlin's name had he ever thought her boring?

* * *

"I don't even know what this Humanitarian of the Year business means," Hermione complained, entering the _Witch Weekly_ offices in Islington with Ginny in tow and looking around her in alarm. The violent fuschia of the wallpaper boded ill.

"They'll probably just hand you some trophy and ask you to say a few words," mumbled Ginny, gazing darkly in the direction of a row of desks. "I've got to go have a word with a couple of junior correspondents about that article they wrote about me and Harry."

Abandoned, Hermione stood uncomfortably at the center of the room, wondering if it would be acceptable to simply slip out and never return. At last a witch in robes of shocking magenta strode up to her carrying an enormous dragonskin handbag and beaming from ear to ear.

"Miss Granger!" she cried in a voice like tinkling bells, grasping Hermione's hand and shaking it vigorously. "Might I call you Hermione?" She did not wait for an answer. "Hermione, we're so delighted you could make it. I'm Miranda Chiswick. I'll be overseeing your preparation for the award ceremony."

"Preparation?" Hermione repeated fretfully, losing confidence in the situation by the moment. She already wished she were home with a good book. Or perhaps with Malfoy...

"Well we can't have you attending a gala in your honour looking like..." She trailed off, waving her hand carelessly at Hermione's whole person as though her meaning were quite evident.

"I see." Hermione tugged self-consciously at the mess that was her hair that morning.

"Just a few little dashes of colour, dear," Miranda Chiswick assured her. "Nothing at all involved."

It was extremely involved.

Of course, Hermione had expected as much. Still, she began to grow impatient and nervous in equal measure when she had already been sitting in the beautician's chair in the back room for over an hour, only to see Miranda open her handbag with a snap and pull out yet more combs and potions.

"I simply don't think Sleekeazy's will do!" she explained cheerfully. "We're going to have to apply something much stronger. And a few ointments for that skin of yours as well, I think. Those dreadful circles under your eyes... Not to worry dear, we'll have you sorted out in a trice!"

_Miserable, dried up old bint_, Draco's voice drawled in her head, and Hermione bit her lip. But her parents had drilled politeness into her from her earliest infancy, and so she found herself nodding meekly.

Her hair was brushed and pulled, washed and primped. Her skin was powdered and her eyelashes curled. Her robes were swept away into a rubbish bin and replaced with an atrocious form-fitting number that made her feel as though several parts of her body were put far too prominently on display. At last she was dragged before a mirror and left to gape, aghast, at her reflection.

She did not recognize herself. Harry was going to laugh himself silly when he saw her. And Draco... well, perhaps she could get some use out of this transformation after all.

Steeling herself, Hermione squared her shoulders and prepared for the gala.

* * *

It had begun purely as an accident. An unlikely mix of circumstances that had forced them together on the last day of NEWT's, for which Draco had returned to Hogwarts, much to his reluctance. No one had expected a renegade group of escaped Death Eaters to choose this precise moment to attack the school, affording them the element of surprise. While the Professors and Examiners fought off the attackers, and Granger rushed off at once to help, Draco had stood in the center of it all, frozen in place by the same hateful old indecision.

But that old hag McGonagall had taken issue with Granger's putting herself in harm's way to help and had rounded up as many students as she could reach. He and Granger had wound up magically sealed in a dungeon classroom together, listening to the sound of the enemy breaking through the barriers and wondering if, after everything they had survived, this was the way it was meant to end after all.

Draco had begun to pace back and forth, again and again, from wall to wall. After some time Granger had pulled out a book—a bloody book—but he had soon realized that she was not really reading. Her eyes stared at a fixed point on the page. Somehow the fact that any incident could rattle Hermione Granger's legendary concentration had shaken him to the core.

After several hours they had wound up simply staring at one another from across the room. When a particularly loud crash had sounded nearby he had stood up, crossed the space between them, and stood directly in front of her. _Anything for a distraction_, he had thought, because he was so tired of death and terror, so very tired, _anything to quiet the nerves_.

She had looked up at him, apparently quite calm, and raised her eyebrows in question.

"If we're going to die," he'd said. And reaching out to cup her face, he'd pulled her up and kissed her.

He had not expected her to respond so feverishly. He'd known her affair with Weasley had flamed out in a matter of weeks—no great surprise there—but in retrospect he could not fathom what had possessed the both of them.

Moreover, it had been meant as a one-off. They had parted ways in a dazed state, and he had told himself it did not matter, because he would never see her again if he could help it.

That had been three years ago.

He had managed to stay away from her for nearly eight months. Then, at a Ministry soirée, he had spotted her from across the room and found himself kissing her furiously against the wall out by the visitors' entrance ten minutes later. Just as he had managed to yank aside her skirt and undo his belt he had heard footsteps from around the corner and Potter's voice calling out "Hermione? Where've you gone?" Pressing a finger to her lips to indicate quiet, he had Apparated them to a hotel room he kept year-round while already inside her, unmindful of the hazards of such a risky activity. She had never let him hear the end of that one.

It had remained unspoken between them, somehow, that their involvement was not to bleed into the other aspects of their lives. Their roles were too well established, their lives polar opposites. Occasionally they went weeks without seeing one another. He knew that people were beginning to talk—to wonder why he had made no move to acquire a wife as someone in his position was wont to do. He would let them talk... he had been the subject of darker gossip.

It was worth it.

* * *

"That dress should be a crime."

Hermione set down her goblet and grinned at Malfoy, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious," he went on, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Imprisonable offense. Azkaban sentence and everything."

His hand slipped onto her thigh and Hermione glanced around nervously, but the sea of guests were crowding up to the stage where an up-and-coming band was launching into a rowdy tune. The music was drawing a great deal more attention than her speech had done. Malfoy pulled her to her feet and made for the door as the lead singer cried, "Witches and Wizards, boys and girls, we are the Werewolves of London!"

"Oh," Hermione muttered, looking over her shoulder, "I wanted to hear..."

"Please do not tell me you prefer Stubby Boardman over me," Malfoy protested.

"That's _Stubby Boardman?_"

"Granger," he hissed. "Shut up."

He silenced her with a kiss. Through the corridor into the loo they fumbled and tripped, and then he hitched her up onto the sink, locking the door magically behind them and removing the clip from her hair. Hermione's up-do came cascading down onto her shoulders, soft and sleek, and Malfoy ran his fingers through it appreciatively.

"What kind of dark magic is responsible for that?" he asked slyly.

"The potion is fifty Galleons a bottle!" Hermione recited, imitating Miranda Chiswick's overenthusiastic tone. "Go ahead and take one, darling, all our guests do!"

The rest of her impression was lost as Malfoy's mouth closed around the hollow of her throat. Out in the main hall the Werewolves of London crashed into a raucous chorus that drowned out the sounds of Hermione's moans. By the time she emerged from the loo, slightly disheveled, the band had transitioned into a slower ballad, and many guests had wandered away. Harry and Ron caught up to her after Malfoy had vanished into the throng of dancers. As she had predicted, Harry could not keep from chuckling as Ron stuttered at the sight of her dress.

"When you two imbeciles have put your eyes back in," Ginny said, swatting Harry lightly on the shoulder, "you might like to introduce Hermione to Emeritus Elsley here. Hermione, Mr Elsley is the Editor-In-Chief of Witch Weekly. He interviewed me when I was transferred to the Harpies."

"Er, hello," said Hermione nervously, shaking hands with a man she had not previously seen standing behind Harry and Ron.

"Miss Granger, your speech was inspiring, simply inspiring!" said the tall, whispy Elsley, wringing her hand tightly. "We at _Witch Weekly_ would love to feature you on the cover of our next issue!"

He spoke as if he were father Christmas bestowing an immense favor. Hermione paled.

"I—Thank you but, er—I really don't think—"

"She'd be happy to!" Ginny interjected, smiling encouragingly. When Hermione frowned at her she added, "Don't you think this would be a good opportunity to speak to the public about S.P.E.W., Hermione?"

Hermione did not know what made her give in. Perhaps it was the fact that Ginny had for once pronounced S.P.E.W. correctly. In any case, she acquiesced with a small nod and Elsley clapped his hands in delight.

Draco laughed softly in her head.

* * *

_Granger,_

_I don't know where the fuck you've been hiding the last three weeks but enough's enough. Don't tell me you don't need a shag, I don't fucking believe you._

_DM_

* * *

_An emergency_, Miranda Chiswick had said through the fireplace. _Come quickly._

So Hermione had thrown on mismatched clothes and rushed to the Three Broomsticks as she was bidden, only to find herself standing in a crowded barroom looking up at a group of swaggering musicians on a ramshackle stage.

"What's going on?" asked Hermione, cringing at the noise.

"The Werewolves of London have written a song about you!" Miranda announced triumphantly, evidently under the impression that being immortalized in song was the epitome of Hermione's life's ambitions.

"_What?_"

"Your _Witch Weekly_ cover was a rousing success! Your name's been all the rage lately. Listen, _listen!_"

Sure enough, the bassist had broken into a bluesy tune while Stubby Bordman gripped the enchanted microphone like a man possessed, singing a frenetic verse.

"_Her-miiiiiione, Hermione,  
Is it true you flew  
A dragon out of Griiiiiin-gotts?  
Hermione, Heeeeer-mione,  
Did you know you flew  
Away with my heart?_"

"Oh my God." Hermione did not know whether to laugh or cry.

"_I know!_" Miranda trilled, mistaking her meaning. "Well, this clinches it, really. I think now is the time to act. I'd be delighted to represent you, darling."

"Represent me?"

"As your media relations agent. The gala and the article were just the beginning! I've been hearing rumors Dr Sleekeazy wants to make you the face of his new cosmetic potions line!"

"You can't be serious."

"Yes, he's been looking into launching a line of products that don't test on House Elves. Come have a drink with me, we'll discuss it."

Hermione hesitated. But it was early still, and she did not have to go into work the next morning. Moreover, what could possibly be the harm in supporting Elf rights, even if it was by unconventional means? She could see Tom the barman waving her over excitedly, offering a drink on the house.

"Oh all right," she conceded, grinning in spite of herself. A lifetime of fighting in the trenches alongside Harry had left her accustomed to going unnoticed, which had always been just the way she liked it. She did not need praising for her looks or her social clout when there were important issues to deal with. But just this once, it might be rather... nice to feel the way she had done at the Yule Ball again.

* * *

A fortnight later found Draco walking into _Le Poltergeist_, a trendy new restaurant in Diagon Alley, feeling particularly bad-tempered. He had lost a substantial bet on a Hippogriff race earlier that evening, and was intending to collapse onto a bar stool and order an entire _crate_ of Ogden's Old when the barmaid bounced up to him and chirped, "How's about a drink, sir? We've got a new special, the Granger!"

Draco nearly choked on his own tongue.

"_What?_" he spluttered, certain he had heard wrong.

"Gin, grenadine, and pernod!" the barmaid listed off happily. "And a cherry as well if you please. Named after Hermione Granger, recent _Witch Weekly_ cover. You've seen 'er Chocolate Frog card I'm sure. We've the honor of having her here tonight!"

Draco turned slowly, as if in a dream, to face a corner booth where Hermione indeed sat chatting animatedly with a pair of distinguished looking wizards who could hardly stop ogling her chest long enough to pay attention to a word she said. Her hair was sleek and shiny again, her robes impeccable, and her cheeks were tinted a faint rosy hue. No doubt this last was due to the numerous empty goblets scattered across her table.

"Oh, an' there it goes again!" the barmaid chirped, turning up the volume on a large wooden wireless behind the counter. A catchy tune blared across the room that made Draco want to tear his hair out.

"_Hermione, Her-miiiiiione,  
Is it true you flew  
A dragon out of—_"

Draco jumped to his feet, shaking his head incredulously. He had every intention of leaving, but then his gaze caught Hermione's across the room and her eyes widened into that unassuming, guileless look he knew so well, and she froze. Then, damn her, she beamed at him and trotted over—wobbling slightly in a ridiculous pair of dragonskin shoes—to speak to him.

Five minutes, and Granger's hackneyed entourage had dissipated. Draco kicked closed the door of her flat and pressed her against it, her head falling back as he grazed her nipple with his teeth. He ripped her robes frantically away and faltered when he found that she was bare underneath them.

"Christ," he muttered reverently.

She grinned wolfishly and pushed him through the corridor into her bedroom.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

Hermione looked around and saw Malfoy lift his head blearily from her pillow.

"I have a meeting with a representative from Sleekeazy's Beauty Parlour at ten and I have to see a hairdresser beforehand," she told him, searching through the pile of clothes at her feet for her shoes. "I absolutely can't go looking like this."

He nodded, and his head fell back against the pillow. "Congratulations. Let's have dinner tonight to celebrate."

"I can't, I promised Miranda I'd meet her. The Werewolves of London are playing a set tonight and they want to bring me on stage."

"Tomorrow, then."

"I'm really very busy, but I'll see what..."

The words died in her throat as Malfoy sat up abruptly, eyes boring into her as never before. She felt suddenly vulnerable, stripped down by two flecks of icy gray.

"What?" she asked, wondering why her voice wavered.

"I'd like to know who I just fucked, because I don't think it was Hermione Granger," he snapped.

"What are you—That's incredibly rude—"

"Well I'm not feeling incredibly polite." He let out a harsh sigh and shook his head. "Tell me this isn't all because you're on some high from that fucking gala. The hair and the shoes and the magazine covers and the bloody _drinks_..."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to look nice," Hermione retorted, bristling. He had _no right_ to begin dictating her appearance, for goodness' sake.

"You always looked nice, Granger. This is just _artificial._"

"That's rich, coming from you! Haven't you said a million times what a buck-toothed, bushy-haired _Mudblood_ I was?"

"Yes," he said quietly. "When I was sixteen."

Her heart was thumping wildly, hammering against her chest, and she felt as though her lungs were screaming for air. They were going off script. They were not supposed to venture into this territory.

"Well if you were so _happy_ with the way I was before," Hermione spat, "why the cloak-and-dagger act? Why are we always meeting in secret, _hiding_ from everyone?"

Malfoy stood up, the lines of his neck and jaw taut with anger. "That came from you as much as it did from me—"

She screamed in derision for want of anything else to do, but for Merlin's sake, wasn't he _right?_

He gathered up his clothes and walked out of her flat without another word. The sound of the front door closing behind him was deafening.

* * *

_MALFOY HEIR DEBUNKS RUMORS OF HIS ENGAGEMENT TO DAUGHTER OF WEALTHY GRINGOTTS INVESTOR COPERNICUS GREENGRASS._

_Earlier this week special Daily Prophet correspondent Rita Skeeter spoke to Narcissa Malfoy at her Wiltshire home about the success of her recent charity auction. Mrs Malfoy, in tantalizing fashion, managed to let slip a juicy tidbit of gossip that had our offices reeling._

"_Yes, Mr Greengrass's youngest, Astoria, has always been very fond of Draco," she told us exclusively, referring to her only son, pardoned Death Eater Draco Malfoy, 22. "He doesn't like to speak about it, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if they became something of an item in the near future."_

_Our sources, however, had an entirely different story to tell. Spotted leaving Diagon Alley this morning, Malfoy had this to say before he jinxed one of our reporters, threatened to snap another's wand, and fled the scene:_

"_I bloody well am not seeing Greengrass, and I never was. And whoever I am seeing, it's none of your damn business, so why don't you [expletive redacted]."_

_In addition to this rather colorful language, Malfoy's claims have been verified by Miss Greengrass herself, who confirms that she is not in any way involved with the wealthy Malfoy heir._

_Meanwhile, the revival of the popular band the Werewolves of London continues to..._

* * *

She knocked on the door of his hotel room insistently. It had taken her long enough to track him down, and she was not about to let him stay holed up alone, sullen and brooding, for another day.

"All right, all right!" she heard him drawl from somewhere inside, and she ceased her knocking. At last the door swung open, and he stood there, unshaven and gaping incredulously at her.

"Hello," Hermione said, keeping her tone neutral.

"Did you get caught in a hurricane, Granger?" Draco asked, a slight sneer threatening to break across his face.

"Not exactly. I found out Dr Sleekeazy's no testing on House Elves policy was just a publicity stunt, so I organized a rally for S.P.E.W. instead, to try and bring about some _real_ change."

"And you, er, got mugged at this rally?"

Hermione grinned. The rally had been perfectly peaceable. She had taken special care that morning, however, to look an absolute fright. She had swept most of the beauty products Miranda had given her into the rubbish bin and dug out her old work robes. At present her hair was an unsightly snarl, her face was still puffy from a full night's sleep, and her cloak was at least three sizes too big. She had not looked this disheveled since her days in the tent with Harry.

"Not quite," she admitted.

Draco reached up and toyed with a strand of her hair, his eyes darkening, and her stomach did a back-flip. She knew that look. That was the look he'd had on the very first day he had kissed her, back at Hogwarts.

"I reserve the right to dress up whenever I please," she told him, raising a finger in warning.

He cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't happen to keep that dress, did you?"

Hermione pulled at the string of her cloak and it fell from her shoulders, revealing the form-fitting dress she had worn to the _Witch Weekly_ gala. Draco growled low in his throat and stepped aside to let her in, closing the door behind her.

* * *

**A/N:** So basically, I hate the makeover trope so much I had to basically turn it on its head to make it work. Hope you liked it. I've had requests for dark draco and Hermione as Voldemort's daughter (who knew that was even a thing!) and I'm going to give that a try next. It'll probably be the last chapter. Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed:** IDanceToForget, mh21, ultimateb, Captain Lila, NSteph2883.** Let's form a posse, guys. Until next time, cheers!


	5. Crescendo

**A/N:** This is dedicated to **mh21** for submitting the most insane, challenging request I've ever gotten- for Hermione as Voldemort's daughter. This was both exciting and heartbreaking to plot out, and I had a lot of fun with it, so I hope it turned out okay. (I apologize to the surprising number of you who adamantly requested a secret marriage/family chapter, as well as the other requests for things like Healer fics, which I found really interesting. I just can't write an endless number of these, and I couldn't make everything fit. I'll try for a separate one-shot in the future, maybe!) So just to be clear, this is a series of excerpts from a book about Hermione by Rita Skeeter, in the form of articles, letters, photographs, and interviews. The bolded parts are comments Draco penned into the margins of his copy... Thanks a million for your reviews: **mh21, NSteph2883, IDanceToForget, write-this-song, dianna, lolo, Originals-Klaroline, Rosefeather.** I've really enjoyed writing this collection. If you've enjoyed it too I might suggest you check out the list of Dramione tropes in my profile, which a lot of reviewers have contributed to. Cheers all!

* * *

**CRESCENDO**

* * *

HERMIONE GRANGER: THE SAVIOUR'S SECRETS

By Rita Skeeter, bestselling author of "The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore."

**(Property of Draco L. Malfoy)**

INTRODUCTION

Hermione Jean Granger. For over a year the name has been synonymous with all things virtuous, as the Wizarding world has stood in awe of her efforts in Harry Potter's defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. **(Christ, Skeeter, that's laying it on a bit thick, isn't it?)** Many achievements—which at first glance might appear disproportionate to her age and skill level—have been attributed to the Gryffindor ingénue, from masterminding a daring Ministry break-in during You-Know-Who's reign of terror, to enabling the escape of a dragon from the depths of Gringott's bank (a rather damaging feat for which, as far as I can discover, she has never been made to pay reparations).

But all this rumor-mongering pales in comparison with the veritable media blitz that has surrounded Granger in recent months, ever since the tragic events of the 2nd of May 1999. Some have gone so far as to call it the cruelest trick of fate since the now-infamous prophecy dooming Lily and James Potter to death at You-Know-Who's hands. Granger has refused to speak of the events of that day, or indeed to be seen in public for more than a few minutes' time. Her friends and associates, despite the Daily Prophet's best efforts, have been equally tight-lipped. WHAT could have shaken up one of Harry Potter's fiercest supporters to the point of infringing the International Statute of Secrecy in a crowded London Street? WHY has Granger's family not, to our knowledge, been notified of these events? WHO has been harboring Granger since her controversial Azkaban release? **(Wouldn't you like to know?)**

If one thing can be certain, it is that Harry Potter has kept a great deal quiet about his long-standing ally. As I unravel the long-buried secrets of Hermione Granger's youth, revealing a positive web of poisonous lies, I will attempt to shed some light on the source of all this secrecy. From her mysterious possession of a time-turner at the age of thirteen (an object classified "Highly Dangerous" by Ministry experts) to her unexplained affair with Bulgarian Quidditch star Viktor Krum (alumnus of Durmstrang Academy, renowned for its accent on the dark arts) **(Git.)** to the shocking truth behind her legendary talent, HOW has Hermione Granger managed to keep the public in the dark for so long?

Sufficed to say that there may be a great deal more "in the dark" about Granger than was once believed.

* * *

DAILY PROPHET, SUNDAY MAY 2nd, 1999: OBITUARIES

The Daily Prophet profoundly regrets to report that earlier today the body of one Ronald Bilius Weasley was recovered from the scene of an attack on Diagon Alley. The attack was led by a small faction of what are now known to be escaped Death Eaters, in commemoration of the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named one year ago. A detachment of Aurors arrived on the scene within minutes to subdue the assailants, leading to a fight that has left three civilians severely wounded. Weasley is believed to have been killed instantly by means of an Unforgivable Curse.

Weasley's fellow Aurors have been released from Saint Mungo's, and all six Death Eaters responsible for the attack have been apprehended and summarily sentenced to life in Azkaban. **(Fucking Greyback. Azkaban's too good for him.)**

Ronald Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class, is best known for his assistance in Harry Potter's triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He had been a member of the Auror Office for some eight months, as well as one half of the creative force behind the revival of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes joke shop. He is mourned by his loving family and his fiancée, Hermione Jean Granger of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. A memorial and vigil will be held at the Weasleys' home in Ottery St. Catchpole one week from today.

Harry Potter has not yet commented on the tragic demise of his long-time friend and Hogwarts classmate, but is expected to release a statement to the press some time tomorrow morning.

**(... Shit happens.)**

* * *

DEPT. OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT ARCHIVES: TRANSCRIPT FROM INTERROGATION OF HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER ON MAY 14th, 1999

*Interrogator Marcus Savage, senior member of Auror Office.  
*Subject Hermione Granger, accused of magical attack on eighteen unsuspecting Muggles.

SAVAGE – Let the record show that the accused has been informed of her rights and of the charges brought against her. [Shuffling] Are you prepared to be truthful for the duration of this interview? [Silence] Granger, if you do not cooperate I will be obliged to use force. I do not want to. **(I'll bet you don't, perverted wanker.)**

GRANGER – Yes.

SAVAGE – Yes?

GRANGER – Yes. The truth.

SAVAGE – Very well. First, did you indeed vanish after the funeral of Ronald Weasley and break all contact with family and friends until three days later?

GRANGER – I... I was upset. I needed time. To clear my head.

SAVAGE – And you admit that you were indeed screaming unintelligibly and brandishing a wand when you were discovered in Tottenham Court Road at the end of those three days?

GRANGER – I don't—I hardly remember... Yes. I had a wand.

SAVAGE – But not your wand.

GRANGER – My wand was lost in the war. I had been using a replacement.

SAVAGE – For over a year?

GRANGER – Ollivander promised to make me a new one when he recovered.

SAVAGE – And yet even with a foreign wand, you managed to produce a bombardment charm of unprecedented force? Blasting apart a coffee shop and a video store in front of dozens of Muggle witnesses? **(Didn't know she likes an audience. Interesting.)**

**(... Christ, I'm going straight to hell.)**

GRANGER – It was—They tell me the shops were closed. No one was killed.

SAVAGE – Then you _did_ cast a bombardment charm? Not since Peter Pettigrew's framing of Sirius Black have we seen such a—

GRANGER – I don't remember! I blacked it all out. The funeral was so... It was just so unfair. Ron never did anything to hurt anyone, and—[Muffled sobbing] I d—didn't meant to lose control. All I remember is sitting on the sidewalk and crying, and this group of—These three men and two women came up and started to taunt me, trying to get at my purse and spitting at me. I just wanted them t—to go away, I didn't mean any harm. I don't know how it happened, it just did!

[Slamming door and hurried footsteps.]

POTTER – What is this? Why wasn't I notified she was being interrogated today?

SAVAGE – We were instructed to proceed with—

POTTER – Hermione, don't say another word, we're going to get you out of here—

SAVAGE – She has already confessed.

POTTER – She... What?

GRANGER – I didn't mean... I thought when Voldemort was gone it would all end! No one else was supposed to die. I can't stand it, Harry!

POTTER – All right, that's enough—

SAVAGE – This interview is at an end. Potter, regretfully you will have to go.

POTTER – Like hell I will!

[Loud crash.]

[End of transcript.]

* * *

_In the frame, a stretch of overcast beach outside the exit of Azkaban prison. The fortress rises daunting and proud against the horizon in the background, while waves lap hungrily at the shore. Two cloaked guards, less imposing than Dementors but armed with wands, stand at either side of a young woman with bushy brown hair, removing shackles from her wrists. As she is released the woman stumbles forward and comes face to face with a tall young man in impeccable, expensive-looking robes. His white-blond hair is bright in the light of the dusk, and he looks faintly smug as he observes the woman's shocked expression. They speak briefly. She shakes her head but he steps forward, insisting. After a lengthy, suspicious glare the woman looks left and right at her grim surroundings and relents, nodding curtly. They shake hands in haste, as though reluctant to touch one another, and she follows him into a handsome, enchanted boat docked nearby._

_The scene repeats again and again, immortalized on grainy newsprint with the woman's face falling into lines of suspicion and the man's mouth pulling into a grimace._

CAPTION: Photograph taken by Gonzo Valenski for Rita Skeeter. Left to right: Azkaban guard Martin Wollensby, released prisoner Hermione Granger, Azkaban guard Darius White, pardoned Death Eater Draco Malfoy.

**(She comes out of Azkaban as brash as ever, looking ravishing enough to eat. Unbelievable. I never stood a chance.)**

* * *

Harry,

Burn this as soon as you read it. Malfoy assures me the owl he's provided does not risk falling into the wrong hands. **(How the HELL did they get their hands on this?)**

I'll be staying at Malfoy Manor until further notice. It's the last place the press will think to look for me. They think Malfoy came to meet me at Azkaban to gloat, or something of the sort. He did, I suppose. **(Granger, come on now.)** But more importantly, he had a proposition for me. I don't really understand, and he won't explain properly, but apparently Dumbledore's portrait at Hogwarts requested a meeting with him and told him that he needed to track me down.

The things is, Harry, it turns out at some point Voldemort cast some sort of rare curse I've never even heard of on all his servants. It works like a modified version of the Unbreakable Vow, so that if any of them dealt him a betrayal that got him killed, they would fall slowly ill and it would get worse and worse until they died a painful death. Malfoy's mother has it. Because she lied to Voldemort about you being dead, just before the end. (And before you ask, no, there isn't anything you can do. Believe me, we've been over every option). Narcissa is on her death bed, and for some reason Malfoy is convinced I'm the only one who can undo the curse. I don't understand why that is yet, but I intend to find out.

Don't try to come after me, it would only cause problems and we don't have a lot of time. I'll see you as soon as I can. I can't thank you enough for getting me released from Azkaban. Even without the Dementors it's a dreadful place.

Stay strong, Harry. He would have wanted us to.

Love,

Hermione.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT: A FARCE OF A FAMILY TREE

Shortly after I began to undertake research for this novel I was contacted by Pansy Parkinson, former model student of Hogwarts and classmate of Draco Malfoy's (For more on Malfoy's scandalous involvement with Granger, see chapters four and thirteen). **(For more of Granger's gorgeous tits see Draco's Pensive.) **It did not take much digging to verify her claims that Granger once used a Love Potion to seduce and ensnare international Quidditch player Viktor Krum (see chapter five). As the erudite reader may know, the use of Love Potions on unwilling participants is an imprisonable offense. From whence might such a sly impulse have sprung?

One must first remember the _Daily Prophet_ article of some six months ago, which caused a storm of controversy when it claimed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a Half-blood born of the union between squib Merope Gaunt and Muggle Tom Riddle—an unlikely pairing, given the couple's vast difference in station and wealth.

After a series of tiresome trips to Little Hangleton, I managed to confirm that Merope Gaunt in fact did secure her marriage to Tom Riddle through the use of Amortentia. The Class D non-tradable potion is known for being atrociously difficult to brew, and seems a stretch for such a downtrodden witch. One can only assume the Gaunts may have possessed a predisposition for the brewing of illegal potions. This theory is supported by the infamous Devonshire Potions murders of 1783 to 1785.

HOW did Hermione Granger come by such a mastery of advanced potion making at the mere age of fourteen, when she first met Mr Krum? The answer, though hidden in plain sight, is almost too shocking to be believed.

* * *

_A typical London street, deserted in the early morning, with automobiles lining the pavement in each spot except that in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. A young woman with bushy brown hair emerges onto the front stoop balancing a heavy cardboard box stuffed full of mismatched folders and pieces of parchment on the end of her wand. She looks rather haggard, with scuffed robes and dark circles under her eyes. Leaning forward, she glances left and right as if to check for possible witnesses. Once satisfied, the woman turns on the spot and vanishes, along with the box. A moment later the houses on either side of Number Twelve seem to close in on the gap, so that the house from which she emerged vanishes._

CAPTION: Granger leaving former Order of the Phoenix Headquarters, taken by Gonzo Valenski for Rita Skeeter.

**(Left to right: Granger with her manic research stare, Draco Malfoy with a hard-on, Disillusioned, thank Merlin.)**

* * *

Hermione,

I don't even know where to start. This is going to be... difficult. **(Very eloquent, Scarhead.)**

I got Kingsley to grant me access to Dumbledore's Pensive like you asked (it took a hell of a lot of convincing, because it's supposed to have been sealed and no one has ever seen the full extent of its contents), and I examined all the relevant memories he never showed me. I focused on the areas you suggested based on the research you gathered from the family tapestries in Grimmauld Place. First off, there's a period of time about twenty years ago—from October 1978 to February 1979—when Voldemort disappeared entirely. Which is really odd, considering he was in the middle of a war. This was just before the prophecy, when he was at the height of his power. There were rumors he was in France looking for this plant called _Floralis fugae_ that gives the power of flight, but that's just a myth so he would have given up eventually and come back. (He must have found some other way to fly.) Anyway, no one knows the specifics of what happened while he was there.

Dumbledore traveled to Beauxbatons a year or so after Voldemort's visit, supposedly to collaborate on a failed attempt to revive the Tri-Wizard tournament. But on the way he met with the Saradine family—they're the oldest, wealthiest Pureblood family in France (And now you're rolling your eyes and saying "I know.") He found out that their oldest daughter, Amelie, had just recently been sent away to a school in America because she was showing too strong an inclination to sympathize with Voldemort's cause. **(That's one way to put it.)** She was obsessed, actually, from what the neighbors said. And there was a newborn girl in the family. Mrs Saradine claimed it was hers, but the neighbors told a different story. Funnily enough, nowadays the neighbors have no recollection of any of these events. And Dumbledore's memories showed that the baby...

You should sit down if you aren't already. I wish I could tell you this in person.

The baby's name was Hermione.

Look, this doesn't change anything, even if it's true. You're still... This doesn't change anything.

Under Veritaserum and some powerful memory charms Dumbledore managed to get the Saradines to confess that Amelie had used Amortentia on Voldemort when he came to the area to recruit. It's sort of tragic in a twisted way. I just mean, how the same thing keeps happening again and again. The craziest part is Voldemort was so arrogant he never realized, or accepted, that he'd been bewitched. He thought he'd just... lost it for a bit, I suppose.

I don't know if you want to hear the rest. No one would blame you for letting this go and not reading the rest. But I have a feeling I'm wasting my time suggesting that.

When the Saradines found out what Amelie was up to and put a stop to it, and when the Potion wore off, Voldemort decided he was tired of her, I guess. He went to kill her, but the Saradines put another girl under Polyjuice and passed her off as Amelie, and she was killed instead. They pretended to thank Voldemort, like they thought it was a mercy. They had enough clout and wealth to make sure the rest was all hushed up, and he never found out he had a child. But Dumbledore insisted they couldn't keep the baby because it was too risky, Voldemort might find out if he ever revisited the area. The Saradines had no choice but to give her—you—up. Dumbledore knew Voldemort would never look for you in a Muggle family so he found a couple who couldn't have a child of their own. He modified your parents' memories so they thought you were theirs.

I'm sure you would have been the same—magically talented I mean—whether you were really, you know, Muggleborn or not. But this does explain the incident in Tottenham Court Road, with how powerful that spell you cast was. You're... Salazar Slytherin's last living descendant. **(Hell of a case of cosmic irony.)**

Write me back using the same untraceable owl as soon as you've read this. I'm serious, Hermione.

Harry

* * *

DAILY PROPHET ARCHIVES: TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW CONDUCTED WITH BELLS THE HOUSE ELF

*Interviewer: Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet special correspondent.  
*Interviewee: Bells, Elf formerly in the employ of Malfoy Manor, recently freed into custody of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. **(!?)**

SKEETER – Do you know why you're here, Bells?

BELLS – Bells is here to tell Miss Reporter about the SPEW lady.

**(What the fuck? This is why I shouldn't have freed that damn elf!)**

SKEETER – That's right, Elf! Very good. Now, what can you tell me about the time Hermione Granger—the SPEW lady—spent at Malfoy Manor?

BELLS – The SPEW lady is very nice, oh yes! Bells likes her very much.

SKEETER – Yes, that's lovely, but what did she do? Forge counterfeit Galleons? Slip potions in your Master's drink? Write letters to convicted criminals?

[Silence]

BELLS – Is Miss Reporter sure the SPEW lady is being all right with Bells telling her private business?

SKEETER – Yes, yes, I've told you, Elf, the SPEW lady is a close personal friend of mine. She's already told me all about it. I just want to make sure I haven't, er... forgotten anything.

BELLS – The SPEW lady is reading lots and lots of parchments and files and old books while she is staying at Malfoy Manor. She and Master Malfoy are spending lots of time in the Drawing Room where Bells is usually cleaning, and they are learning a lot of new things, Bells thinks, because the SPEW lady is crying many times and Master Malfoy is running all around the house without anything to do. They is arguing a lot, too. [Frightened squeak] But Bells is not supposed to be eavesdropping!

SKEETER – That's all right, Elf, there's nothing wrong with a little eavesdropping between friends. In fact you've done very, very well, and it would make me ever so happy if you could tell me what the SPEW lady and Malfoy argued about.

BELLS – Bells doesn't thinks the SPEW lady is wanting Bells to tell—

SKEETER – The SPEW lady isn't here right now. You don't want me to have to tell her you've been bad and unhelpful, now, do you?

BELLS – No, Bells is helping, Bells is helping! Bells is coming into the Drawing Room one day and the SPEW lady is crying, and Master is standing beside her looking very uncomfortable, and Bells is doing her work quietly so they is not being bothered. And Master is putting his arm around the SPEW lady's shoulders and then she is staring at Master. And Master is pulling her in close, close, close, and kissing her for a long time. **(Buggering hell, Potter's going to blow his top when he reads this.)** But then the SPEW lady is moving away from Master and saying they is wrong to be kissing, and Master is looking angry and asking—

[For the purposes of clarity, a transcript of the conversation between Granger and Malfoy has been extrapolated from Bells's account. Slight departures from reality should be expected, taking into consideration the limited capacity of Elves to comprehend human interaction.]

MALFOY – Why the hell not?

GRANGER – Malfoy, please, just think... You wouldn't be doing this if you still thought I was—was—

MALFOY – But you're not.

GRANGER – But I am! I'm the same person I've always been, no matter my birth. I'm the same person I was all those years you spent calling me names. And I was a hundred times happier thinking my parents were Muggles. So for all intents and purposes, Malfoy, I'm a Mudblood, all right? Mudblood, and proud of it.

MALFOY – Oh please. Don't be so—

GRANGER – You see! You can't accept it. You don't want to hear what I'm saying.

MALFOY – I... No, come back! I—Granger, fuck, you're a Mudblood. Happy? You're a Mudblood!

[End of extrapolated transcript.]

BELLS – And then Master is kissing the SPEW lady again and Bells is leaving because Bells is not wanting to intrude in Master's private matters.

[Laughter]

SKEETER – Elf, you've done a hell of a job. I can't thank you enough.

[End of transcript.]

**(Let the record show that Master Malfoy then shagged the SPEW lady on the Drawing Room grand piano.)**

* * *

DAILY PROPHET, NOVEMBER 17th, 1999: OBITUARIES

The body of one Narcissa Cedrella Malfoy was laid to rest this Sunday at the Malfoy family plot of the Wiltshire cemetery, in a private and unpublicized ceremony. Mrs Malfoy succumbed to the rare _Prodictas_ curse, for which there exists no known cure. She is mourned by her husband, pardoned Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, and her son Draco Malfoy, who have declined to release any statement on the sad event. The funeral is rumored to have been attended by none other than Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, whose motive for lending support is unclear. Potter and Granger have also refused to comment on their involvement.

**(FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK)**

* * *

Malfoy,

I hope this finds you. I don't know where you've gone, but I know that you need time to mourn.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I really thought we had it. We were so close to a cure with that last attempt, but I refuse to think that it was in vain. Your mother died for the best of causes, to save you—and in doing so she also saved Harry, and we won't ever forget it.

When I lost Ron **(I can't read this shit. I'm done)**, and then again when I found out the true story of my family, I felt like I'd died myself. But I promise, Malfoy, even if it never goes away, it gets easier. With enough time it's possible to find peace. I never thought I'd say it, but you were the one who made me see that. And I'd do anything to help you the way you've helped me, if you'll come back some time. If you'll let me know where you are.

Take care, please. _Please._

Hermione.

**(All right, I can't stop reading. I can't.)**

* * *

_Two photographs, side by side, forming near-perfect mirror images with minor distortions. In the first, a young man in elegant black robes standing a little apart from a large, intricate headstone of white marble depicting a weeping angel. He approaches slowly and brushes his fingers across the words inscribed at the foot of the statue, just visible: "Narcissa Malfoy, Loving Mother and Wife." A young woman with bushy brown hair stands behind him, solemn and unmoving, waiting as he clenches his jaw and stares at the grave underfoot._

_In the second, the bushy-haired woman kneels before a modest headstone surrounded by dozens of flowers and wreaths, in a small cemetery at the crest of a hill. The young man in black approaches and places a hand on her shoulder as brushes tears from her face. At length she waves her wand, replacing the wilting flowers with fresh ones, and leans forward for a moment to press her forehead to the inscription reading "Ronald Weasley, Loving Son and Brother, Loyal Friend." Then she stands, pockets her wand, and leaves, hand in hand with the man in black._

* * *

EPILOGUE

It is nothing short of a miracle that Hermione Granger has managed to keep hidden her youthful lawbreaking, sordid affairs **(You don't know the half of it.)**, and dark family secrets for so long. One can only assume that she has received assistance in the process of covering up her dangerous past from known eschewer of the public eye and close friend, Harry Potter. It is my hope, however, that in laying bare Granger's tantalizing web of lies the lives of many will be the better for it. For though we may rail and protest, and though we may claim the right to our private lives, the truth must always set us free.

FIN.

**(What a colossal load of bollocks, Skeeter. Check yourself into Mungo's for brain damage, or Granger'll come after you again, and this time she won't stop until you're shackled to an Azkaban cell.)**

**(Note to self – suggest handcuffs to Granger, yes/no?)**

* * *

DAILY PROPHET, JUNE 27th, 2001: WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENTS

Hermione Granger was married to Draco Malfoy today in a private ceremony in London, in what some are calling the "Wedding of the Decade." The guest list was particularly exclusive, with a veritable Who's Who of Wizarding society clamoring for an invite in light of Granger's recent acknowledgement of her ancestry—as our readers will know, Granger is now confirmed to be the last living descendant of Hogwarts founder Salazar Slytherin. To the consternation of many, however, a most unusual policy was enforced for all guests, be they Malfoy's or Granger's own.

"Frankly I think it's outrageous," Witch Weekly junior assistant Pansy Parkinson told Daily Prophet correspondents today. "I refuse to give in to Granger's horrible tactics just to get an invite to a stupid party. I'll find another way to get in," she adds.

The "tactics" Parkinson refers to may be Granger's insistence that all wedding guests sign a controversial petition at the door in order to be allowed a seat. The petition was drafted by Granger's Comittee for the Respectful Administration of Muggleborn Petitioning, or C.R.A.M.P. It outlines a plan by which the discrimination against Muggleborn witches and wizards in the field of Ministry job interviews will now be punishable by law. This move has come as a blow to Pureblood advocates who had hoped to gain Granger's support after facts regarding her lineage came to light.

Draco Malfoy refused to comment on his wife's extreme success in gathering eleven hundred signatures, but did cause minor injury to a Daily Prophet reporter attempting to question him by throwing a copy of Rita Skeeter's bestselling "Hermione Granger: The Saviour's Secrets" at his head.


End file.
